A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Seven
by BuckeyeBelle
Summary: A religious cult explodes; Optimus and Diarwen pick up the pieces...just before a new defector to the Mission City base makes things really interesting, the Witwicky clan welcomes a new member, and Jazz finds a way to spy on Soundwave.
1. Chapter 1

[A.N. Transformers belongs to Hasbro and whoever they have allowed the rights to it, which certainly doesn't include me. No money has been made from this fanfic and no copyright infringement is intended. All I own are my OCs.

WARNING: _This story contains scenes of extreme violence against children, including the death of a child. If you are likely to find this triggering, please do not read!_ Additional warnings: There is an account of a past attempted rape. Medical/childbirth scenes (human.) Mention of mech pregnancy. This story contains religious and spiritual discussion drawn from various religious paths both real and fictional. Those who wish not to be exposed to religions other than their own should turn back now.

This is the ninth story in The Sidhe Chronicles series. Previous stories are "Swords and Jewels," "The Sidhe Chronicles 2: Dark of the Moon," and the first six stories of "A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime." This is a separate AU from the "Come on up for the Rising" verse.

"Normal speech"

::Silent speech (Internal radio or through a bond)::

Scene Break: -Sidhe Chronicles-

Thanks to my beta and co-author, Vivienne Grainger. /A.N]

* * *

-Sidhe Chronicles-

_February 2012_

_Eastland Church Compound_

_Near St. Louis, Missouri_

Leah Neilson knew exactly when to leave the triplets alone to cry themselves out. Two-thirty PM was their established nap time, and since she was sitting them, she didn't have their mother hovering and second-guessing her, overriding her every decision.

"You sure they'll be all right?" Shad White asked her.

She and Shad were studying algebra together. Shad was two years older than Leah, but algebra and babies were both something he found hard to understand, where Leah didn't. She was glad to help him out with the algebra, and explain the mysteries of child-management too.

And her dog Shankie liked Shad, which meant that Shad was okay.

The triplets knew that this was nap time just as well as she did. There had been the obbligato of exploratory wails—"Is this going to work?" in toddler-speak—and, when it didn't, some chuckles and a few random sobs and hiccups. Now, the triplets' room in her extended family's home was quiet.

In fifteen minutes she could tiptoe in to check on them. If she came in any sooner, they would wake up, and it would be all to do over again.

"Yes. They'll be fine." Leah sighed, and said, "Now this function of x ..."

She knew it was her duty to love her Aunt Marian, the triplets' mother, but it was getting harder and harder to do that. It didn't mean she would give up. It did mean she would ask for help, but she wouldn't do that in the presence of another.

And Aunt Marian was the smaller of her two problems at the moment. Leah had no religious doubts about the Christian Bible; born and brought up in the Eastgate Church, she turned to her King James in times of trouble without hesitation. Church leadership, though, that was another thing entirely.

Leah finished her own work, and helped Shad to finish his. The men must have finished working the sheep just then, because Shankie used the dog flap to intrude himself, greeting both Shad and Leah with a whole-body wag-dance.

Shad returned Shankie's greeting, picked up his books, and bid Leah farewell. Leah returned from seeing him out to shut her algebra book, took out her personal Bible, and slid to her knees beside the schoolwork desk in the hallway. Shankie wriggled himself over to her, delighted to see her down on his level; delighted, in fact, to see his goddess anytime, anywhere.

Leah summoned the patience to deal with him gently. He, after all, was one of God's creatures as surely as she was herself: and she, at eight, was the one who had taken the runt of the litter under her wing, nursing the tiny puppy back to health when everyone else had given up on him.

One hand on Shankie's rough blue-merle coat, Leah closed her eyes, bowed her head, and gathered herself.

"God," she said, very quietly, "I need your help. Aunt Marian's been really awful to me and to my Mom lately. The babies do better for me than they do for her, and that makes her angry. I don't know what to do about that, God. I can't be mean to the babies any more more than I can to Shankie. Please, God, show me what to do about Aunt Marian, to at least make her less mean to Mom."

Then Leah paused for a moment, to allow an answer to come immediately if it was going to. It sometimes did, but not this time; that caused no pain in Leah's heart. She knew she'd get one in time to help her. Knew it down and past her bones, into her very soul.

But the silence inside her head meant that God was patiently waiting for her to say what was on her mind. Leah gathered up her courage; she knew it took courage to be strong in your faith, but hadn't expected it to be so difficult to bare her innermost self to God.

"God," she said, "it's Reverend Dowling. I know that he is our leader, and we are to follow him and do as he directs us. But God, he seems so full of hate lately, hate and, and, craziness. God, I do not doubt You, but I do doubt him. What should I do about that, God? I'm only eleven, and I don't know."

Leah had as she sometimes did the sensation of wings being folded around her, a shield against those who would do her harm. And while her prayer regarding Aunt Marian had no answer, this one did, immediately: "Child, be silent and subservient where you can be observed, but free within yourself to follow your own heart, which you have kept close to Me."

Her shoulders went down. Leah sent thanks, and remained in prayer a bit longer, celebrating all the good things God had so far sent her.

Prayer ended, she reached up to the desk to pull out Shankie's comb, giving him a good grooming while she waited for her second answer, and thought over the first one.

Sometimes her answers came in the form of just knowing. Sometimes, as had the one concerning the Reverend Dowling, a voice spoke inside her head: not a grand, rolling, thunderous voice like anyone who had seen Biblical-epic movies might expect, but something quiet and authoritative that never gave orders, though it sometimes said the most startling things to her.

Her siblings thundered in, ending her reverie: the two sets of twins, and the oldest boys, triplets, along with their wives and children, home from chores. Multiple births ran in the Neilson families: Aunt Marian's triplets had two sets of twin siblings. Between her father and her Uncle Eldon, themselves twins, there were four sets of twins and two of triplets. Leah's had been the only single birth, and she was eight years the junior of her youngest siblings.

"Hey, Leah, hey Shankie," said her eldest brother, Robbie. Leah liked Robbie, and had been sorry when he married; she didn't much like his wife. Robbie knelt to pat Shankie, who thumped his tail at this person his goddess liked, but returned his focused attention immediately to his goddess.

Robbie ruffled the goddess' hair. "How you doin', short stuff?" he said, and grinned himself out of the way of her halfhearted backhand swipe. "Dad says he surely would be grateful for biscuits at dinner tonight. You get your algebra finished?"

"Yes I did. Helped Shad White with his too." Leah gathered up the Shankie-wool she'd groomed from her dog's coat, and rose. "If Dad wants biscuits I better get them started," she said, but Robbie held out his hand to her: a long cut across his palm was now red and angry from having the leather of his gloves rub across it all day.

Leah sighed. "You go into the bathroom and wash that real good, with the green soap," she said. "Come to the kitchen when you're finished."

Robbie, who knew how much the green soap stung, made a face, but did as he was told. Leah went into the kitchen to wash her hands. She could cut the butter into the flour, salt, and baking powder right now, but adding the milk would have to wait until she had the oven warmed to bake them.

Leah had bread rising for dinner as well; she turned the oven to 200 and began assembling the ingredients for biscuits. She'd have to fast-rise the bread in the warmed oven, then raise the oven temperature to bake it, leave the bread to set, raise the oven temperature again, and bake the biscuits.

She was industriously cutting the butter into the flour mixture when the voice in her head said, "Your Aunt Marian is a trial I send you which will soon be over. Despair not."

Leah chewed that over until the biscuit mixture was properly pea-sized throughout, then put the bowl into the refrigerator just as Robbie arrived. His ministrations had opened up the wound; Leah grabbed his hand and moved her consciousness aside to let her healing power flow into the gash on Robbie's palm. Slowly, but visibly, it closed.

Leah had been terrified the first time that had happened. She had been taught to always beware signs of demonic possession. But she had been assured that the laying on of hands was a gift of the Holy Spirit.

"I sure do thank you," Robbie said to her.

Leah smiled and said, "Give thanks to God," left the kitchen, and got the triplets up. The tasks of childcare rose over her, and she allowed this to happen; the babies loved her, and she them.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

When Marian Neilson heaved her bulk downstairs from the second-story room in which, a minimum of forty hours a week, she carried out what she said was "the Lord's work," into the common areas of a home which Leah's family shared with Zeph's and Eldon's, she said imperiously to Leah, "Where are my babies?"

"In their room," Leah said, kneading her biscuits.

"When did you last change them?" Marian snapped.

"Fifteen minutes ago."

"If one of them is wet you'll have to change them all again," Marian said sharply, and Leah replied calmly, to her own surprise, "Yes, I know."

Usually Aunt Marian made her so angry she just turned away. Once, she'd seen Aunt Marian's face in a mirror as she did that, and the look of triumph that flashed across her aunt's fat features was unmistakable.

Now that she knew Aunt Marian was only a temporary trial, she could be adult about it, though her aunt was not...which thought surprised Leah. But she often had surprising thoughts in the wake of answers to her prayers.

Marian looked at her niece sharply, and harrumphed herself into the babies' room. Three wails rose in succession: first Elizabeth, then Jordan, finally Joshua.

Every single day, the triplets cried when their mother came out of her second-floor fastness to get them.

Marian galumphed her fat self back into the kitchen. "What have you done to those babies?"

Leah said calmly, "I haven't done anything to them, Aunt Marian. They always cry when you come to pick them up, which makes me want to ask what it is _you_ do to them."

Marian glared at her, and switched her focus to Abigail, Leah's mother, who was arriving in the kitchen with five gallons of milk. "Abigail, you have no control over this child!"

"Marian, be more charitable. Leah works very hard to excuse you from your women's chores so that you can do the Lord's work." Abigail hung her barn coat up by the door, and began pouring the rich whole milk from the Clun ewe into the gallon containers Leah had sterilized and made ready for her. That milk was to be sold to local artisan cheese-makers, whose product would be marketed to upscale groceries in St. Louis; the family itself drank fresh cow's milk, five gallons in one day.

Abigail set the empty pail down, looked over at Leah, and winked. Leah stifled a giggle.

"What's so funny?" Marian snapped.

"Well, you would be, Aunt Marian, if you weren't so mean even your own babies didn't like you," Leah said.

"Well I never!" Marian said, drawing herself up to her full height.

"Well you often, every single day, in fact. Because every single day, your babies cry when you come to pick them up. What are you doing to them to cause that, Aunt Marian?" Leah said, and cocked her head slightly.

"Girls, enough." Leah's mother chastised them both like errant toddlers. "Don't fight in my kitchen."

Marian went purple, and huffed herself off.

Leah turned back to her biscuits. "I hope she'll let me sit the babies tomorrow."

"Of course she will," Abigail said, not bothering to modulate her voice. "She'll never be able to find anyone else to sit them, not unless she sweetens her disposition." Abigail paused, gathered her daughter to her for a hug, and whispered, "And I don't think there's that much sugar in the whole compound, Leah."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Dr. Boggs?" Optimus said, startled. "How can I help you?"

"You could give me two to three breem of your time right now, Prime, if that's possible. If not, as it's fairly urgent, I will make myself available at your earliest convenience." LouAnna Boggs, Psy. D., looked up at the Prime.

Optimus had looked down when he opened the door to his office at a polite knock, which meant that a human craved admittance.

"Now is fine," he said, and sent a swift message to the Tiny Trine that he would be delayed in speaking with them. They expressed regret, envy, jealousy, and rage, but at least Skimmer did not ask if the delay was because he was bonking Diarwen! "Will you sit on my desk?"

"Certainly," she said, and climbed the stairs to the human perch thereon, seating herself there and folding her hands in front of her.

"It concerns the Eastgate cult," she said, without any preamble. "Dr. Hunt and I have been putting our heads together over the puzzle posed by that...by Horton Dowling. We both believe Mr. Dowling to be increasingly suicidal. It may take only one confrontation with any form of authority which he loses to push him over the edge. Several times recently, for instance, he has referred to reporters asking him inconvenient questions as 'demons in human flesh.' We also know that he sees Cybertronians as demons. So if he is posed a question he cannot answer, and either other humans mock him for that, or a Cybertronian, even one who remains silent, is present, he may feel dangerously thwarted, and put in motion a Heaven's Gate-like suicide plan." She took a deep, shaking breath. "In short, Optimus, not only do we need a fast-response team dedicated to the cult, I think Homeland Security does too. And if they don't agree, both Director Hunt and I feel we should work with them to help the local enforcement agencies in Missouri set up a fast-response team. They're a lot closer than we are."

"Have you time to remain here while I call Director Mearing?" he said. "She may have questions for you that I cannot answer."

She did. Eventually, with both Homeland Security and a very surprised Jefferson County Sheriff's Department officer on the line, the fast response was organized, and the Sheriff said he'd hold a special departmental meeting within the next forty-eight hours to put it in place.

When they were serious, the JCSD could move pretty fast, the Sheriff thought, calling in the senior deputies then on duty. They were very serious, but so was the threat.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

As a result, several days later, someone knocked on Jefferson County Deputy Sheriff Eric Washcombe's door at zero dark-thirty of a late February morning. He wasn't exactly surprised, and went to answer it.

"Hey, Eric," said Deputy Michael Reich. "I come to help out with the chores, since you got the Homeland pager today."

All over Jefferson County, this scenario was repeated. Those who had the pager got a helping hand from those who didn't...who got helping hands from brothers, cousins, uncles, or grown sons. Goodwill flowed through the web of human interconnectedness, all of it aimed at safeguarding the cultists of the Eastgate Church, none of whom knew they needed to be safeguarded...yet.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Are you sure this is going to work?"

Derek Pierpoint looked up from the gadget on his workbench. "I tested the prototype on myself."

Lowell Zain reached up and very deliberately smacked him one about where a human keeps the occiput. "Don't ever do that again."

Pierpoint rubbed his helm. "How else was I going to find out if it worked?"

"Not on yourself, for cryin' out loud! If you knock yourself out, who's going to fix you?"

Pierpoint made a noncommittal noise and refrained from saying that the whole point of the device was to knock out its target: also, it wasn't "fix," it was "reboot." Though he did take to heart―spark―that if he managed to off one Derek Pierpoint, Pretender, the rest of them would likely be up an unsavory creek without paddle, boat, or waders. He nodded.

"Well, since you did―what was the result?"

"Didn't quite work the way I hoped, but I _think_ that's because I can't power the device sufficiently. I might ask DeWayne or Coop to test it for me, since they're so much bigger than the rest of us." He carefully removed from the device something that looked a lot like a magazine with electrical connections.

It looked rather like a large metallic squirt gun, Zain thought. "How does it work?"

"It discharges ions into the air around the target which conduct neural impulses through the plating." Seeing from the perfect blankness of Zain's face that this was Not an Explanation, he clarified, "It short-circuits the neural impulses. Kinda like a taser for a human."

Zain absorbed this, then asked, "Did it hurt?"

Pierpoint stilled his busy hands and cocked his head on one side to think for a moment before he said, "It was somewhat unpleasant. I don't know whether I'd call it pain or not. It didn't last long enough to be...traumatic, I guess is the word I'm looking for. I've never been tased, but I would imagine one would be aware of that for quite a bit longer. This is more of an unexpected shutdown. Awakening was disorienting, but there was little residual discomfort involved." He paused. "I was glad I'd linked it to a dead-man switch, then backed that up with a thirty-second shutoff."

"Uh, Derek…_why_?"

"Oh, the thing can spasm your cables, so you grip whatever's in your hand tightly."

Zain sighed. "And you tested it on yourself to know that."

Pierpoint glanced at him. "Yes. Get me a Pretender guinea pig, and I can stop."

Zain had no reply to that. "We know it works on Pretenders. Will it work on a full-sized Transformer?"

"I assume so as the neural systems are the same, but that's where we run into the power problem."

"Assumptions can get our asses kicked, Pierpoint."

"Right. A stealth shot at one of them, though, might tell us, especially if we didn't do anything to that one afterward."

"How long did it knock you out?"

"About two minutes. Why?"

"I was wondering how long whoever tries it would live!"

Pierpoint, being a scientist, said, "Then…we should test it, but I don't know how to build an accurate simulacrum. Wish I could have a chat with their chief mechanic, or whatever he's called."

"Derek. If we could do that, we wouldn't need to carry out the raid in the first place."

"Oh. Yes, of course." Pierpoint sighed. The plan was afoot, then. He rather thought it was a bad idea to cast any Transformer in the role of kidnap victim, but maybe it wasn't going to be as dangerous as it sounded.

And since Frank Hastings had assigned Zain to it … maybe it would come off. Maybe they could take this bot and get the information they needed from him: if, of course, he had it.

Ideally, they'd take Ratchet. But watching a very short clip of Ratchet in battle had stamped "Not in a Million Years" across that idea.

He didn't like the way Zain had picked up the prototype with a distinct gleam of avarice in his optics. "I need to run some tests on that," he said a little sharply, and Zain put the gun down, gave him a smile, and said casually, "See you at the staff meeting, then."

Pierpoint replied shortly, "See you." He had already extended a screwdriver from one digit, and was opening the weapon's outer casing.

Zain shook his head at the wayward behavior of scientists, human or otherwise, and shut the lab door behind him.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

A couple of evenings later, Frankie Reis set a small helicopter down in a dry wash between Mission City and Las Vegas with the delicacy of a craftsman. He and Len Regener, the unit's marksman, climbed out, and ascended the wash.

To the north, the sky glow of the Strip was easily visible. If not for that, and the sound of cars on the interstate, they could have been in the middle of any desert: the Gobi, the Sahara, even the Rub' al Khali.

The nearby interstate was their goal. Hastings had slipped an informant into a news crew covering the protest outside the base a little while ago, and that one had made a few interesting discoveries. The obvious civilians among the Transformers never left the base without a military escort, either NEST troops or an Autobot. But some of the new mecha were allowed to leave the base unaccompanied. They were small—well, smaller, anyway—and lightly armed.

It seemed they were probably more like National Guard troops than anything else: citizen soldiers. Hastings' group had downloaded pictures of these bots in alt mode. They probably wouldn't be quite as aware of their surroundings as the combat-hardened mechs; experienced soldiers had a sixth sense about possible ambush.

Neither Reis nor Regener was using his customary alt mode; instead, both had downloaded the same transscan, that of a homeless man in downtown Portland. The transscan would be deleted once this mission was complete; that way, if their quarry did spot them, a description would be useless.

Regener chose a vantage point atop a rock outcropping overlooking a short straight stretch of road that lead to a curve, itself giving way to a steep incline. Their quarry would need to slow down here, so their sudden stop would be safer. Also, the terrain gave them a protected escape route down the other side of the rocks. They would be out of sight and on their way back to the helo before their test subject woke up, wondering what the hell happened.

With any luck, the poor mech would never realize he'd been shot. He'd chalk it up to a dizzy spell, or whatever the Cybertronian equivalent was, at least long enough for them to get out and away.

That's what they hoped, anyway.

Headlights appeared on the horizon, but that was just a normal SUV carrying a woman and three kids. The next three cars were also normal Earth vehicles.

The one after that, a black Topkick, they recognized from battle footage even before their new senses detected a Cybertronian. They ducked behind the rocks until Ironhide was well past. Zapping the weapons specialist was a terrible, horrible, very bad idea: suicide if it failed, and extremely likely to be fatal if they didn't have enough time to be _long _gone by the time he woke. And that was precisely what they couldn't be sure of.

A Greyhound bus and a string of civilian cars followed, and soon after that the Nevada State Patrol made their rounds.

The sun dropped below the horizon. It was the night of the new moon, and a human would have had trouble seeing, but they weren't human, physically, any longer.

Reis scanned the next vehicle to come into sight. "We got one."

Regener queried the white pickup's image, and soon his HUD popped up several thumbnail images confirming that this Cybertronian had been seen leaving the base alone several times during the protest. He switched to targeting mode, and green cross-hairs appeared in the center of his field of vision. There were several indicators in Cybertronian glyphs that he knew had to be factors like range and wind variables, but the language was indecipherable to him. All he worried about was lining up the cross hairs over the target. Wind speed wasn't going to affect this weapon.

He confirmed the target and sent the command to fire. There was a brief flash of light.

The white pickup leapt his own length off the pavement, and transformed in midair, hauling a large hatchet out of subspace.

Then he spasmed and collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground.

The Cybertronian fell on the side of the interstate, out of impact range of oncoming traffic. That was a bit of good luck whose absence they hadn't planned for.

Regener and Reis performed their scans with all the haste of a veterinarian tending a tiger whose anesthetic he has forgotten to time, then made the fastest possible tracks.

They were told their target was a small Transformer. "Small" proved to be twelve feet tall, twice their own height...and unlikely to be a happy camper upon awakening.

They were in the air and on their way back toward Vegas when the radio lit up; Regener looked at his watch. First was what had to be the bot's distress call, then the base scrambled a rescue team. Regener said, "I hope they're sending the paramedics, not a SWAT team. It took the bot twenty-three minutes to come around."

Reis gave him a sharp glance, and lost altitude to fly nap-of-the-earth; they would attract less attention from Autobot fliers if mistaken for a ground vehicle. "You and me both, buddy."

End Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimers in Part 1

Jolt transformed when he and Sunstreaker and Sideswipe reached the downed civilian. "Don't move until I complete a scan," he said. "Energon leaking anywhere?"

"No, I don't think so."

Sideswipe asked, "What happened, Icy?"

"I don't know. I never had anything like this happen before. I was just minding my own business when I saw this bright flash. I guess I panicked, I thought it was the 'Cons and hauled my hatchet out of subspace—" he cast wild optics about as Jolt continued his scan— "there it is, could you get it for me, please?—but the next thing I knew I woke up over here. I guess I could have gone into forced recharge, but my energon isn't _that_ low. And it felt like something hit me. I think." Icebreaker rubbed his helm with a shaking servo.

Jolt said, "Run a diagnostic. Are your systems reporting any damage?"

Pause for reflection. "Just road rash, nothing worse than a plating scrape," Icy replied. "Everything else is green across the board."

"Hmm."

No one, human or Cybertronian, is happy when a doctor goes "Hmm." Icebreaker eyed Jolt askance and asked nervously, "What do you think it is?"

"I don't know. It sounds like an electromagnetic pulse, but your sensors would have identified that."

Sideswipe asked, "Is he stable, Jolt?"

"It appears so."

"Then why don't you get him back to base, while Sunny and I take a look around."

The two frontliners covered each other while they searched the area. They were looking for tire tracks, not the occasional sign left by two human-sized Pretenders who knew how to minimize their trail even at a dead run; therefore, they found nothing.

After a short search, which did not take them near the place the helo had set down, the Big Twins reported that there was no one in the area. They were ordered to return to base.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Hastings, Zain, and Glasco met bright and early the next morning. Pierpoint was ensconced in his lab with the results of the scans that Regener and Reis had brought back with them, but they had his preliminary report, and it was positive.

Hastings lit a cigar. He hesitated, then offered cigars to Zain and Glasco, neither of whom took one. Tobacco had no effect on Cybertronians, who inhaled air only to cool their systems. He said, "OK, we've got our weapon. Now how do we get Wheeljack out of that base?"

Glasco said, "Well, sir, I've been thinking about that. We're going to need some bait. Can you get your hands on one of the Decepticon aircraft that was shot down in Chicago? Or at least enough of one to look like a crash site?"

Hastings finished firing up his own cigar. "Probably. They get moved around to different lab facilities out there every now and then. We can doctor some paperwork. What do you have in mind?"

"We need a site near an abandoned mine or tunnel. So far, that's the only kind of place I've found that blocks our communications systems. You get enough rock overhead and the radio waves won't penetrate it. Sir, what I want to do is bury that wreck and make it look like there's a hundred years' worth of weeds growing over it. We post a fuzzy cell phone shot of it on the internet—one with a geotag—and see who shows up. I'm willing to bet it'll be Wheeljack. He might bring one other Transformer along, so we'll have to be prepared to grab two of them. We secure them and hide them underground. Sir, you'll have to be really careful with the paper trail because they'll find the wreckage—but that's a good thing, because we can let them worry about getting it back, or we can take care of it ourselves if it shakes out like that. After we get finished debriefing Wheeljack, we knock him out, unshackle him and leave him in the mine. By the time he wakes up, we're gone. We ditch the temporary alts, and no one will find out who's responsible."

"They'll know there are Pretenders out here."

"They've known that ever since they found that shipment we had to abandon," Hastings reminded him. "Megatron intended to activate them somehow."

Zain said, "But what they'll take home from this is that we were careful not to harm anyone, human or bot, and we let Wheeljack go when we had our answers. Also, we'll have to be careful not to ask him anything that would make them think we're planning an attack; that shouldn't be hard, as all we want is information we need to survive as Pretenders. That'll make us a lower priority than whoever raided their base Christmas Eve, and some of the people protesting outside the main gate. Right now, they've got bigger fish to fry."

"OK. You two find us a location and work out all the bugs. I'll set things in motion to get some wreckage."

And with those three short sentences, Franklin Hastings changed all their lives forever.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

In February, northwestern Nevada is not yet beginning to green.

"Not too bad," said Scott Glasco. "Won't be able to use weeds for cover, but this site's got that jumble of rocks. That won't take long to clear."

"No sir," said O'Leary, and nodded to Kirsch and Ruggles; they set their respective squads in motion.

"Wait," Derek Pierpoint said. "Leave them in place."

Glasco looked at him. "What's your idea, Doc?"

Pierpoint outlined his plan, and it was a good one. Glasco said, "Yeah, we'll do that instead. Frankie, what do you need from us?"

"About two thousand feet of absence," Reis replied.

The rocks. God alone knew how they'd gotten where they were; they weren't bedrock poking through and they weren't uneroded sandstone. They might have been left when the glaciers retreated, and thus, technically, were erratic boulders.

Back in Portland, they'd put some thought into how to place the debris. Pierpoint, the scientist among them, pointed out the obvious truth: if the Decepticon flier fell out of the sky, it would have disintegrated in a regular and recognizable pattern.

Whereupon Reis said, "I can fix that."

"Good," Scott Glasco had replied, nodding, and with his commander's okay in place, three days later in Nevada Reis did just that.

His fellows disembarked, Reis balanced his chopper delicately a hundred feet in the air, and waited for the radio click from Glasco that indicated everyone was in position.

The click arrived. He opened the cargo doors, and edged her nose up.

Four tons of debris flung itself to earth in an unholy din.

Reis set her down well out of the dust cloud, took the restraining nets from the last ton, and performed the same office over the outcropping of stone nearest the one he'd just dumped the debris on. It now looked as if the 'Con flier, losing altitude, might have clipped that outcropping, and come to final grief on the next.

Or anyway they hoped it looked like that.

While the dust settled, Reis put the chopper down on a local flat-topped foothill and began the hike back down to the others.

Kirsch, a talented amateur photographer, took several photos of the wreckage with the throwaway phone they had purchased for the purpose; it was expensive, as it could geotag, but Hastings didn't care. Then he uploaded them, with some generic "Look what I found!" copy.

This part of the mission complete, they toasted their success with energon, and set their cubes out carefully, ready to catch the morning sun.

Remaining human in all but form, they watched stars brighter than most had seen since Kuwait or Afghanistan move through the night. Ruggles pulled his guitar out of subspace and played a bit, lonely country and aching blues under the fierce night sky of the wilderness.

They fell easily into recharge on the bare ground after O'Leary set two shifts of two guards each. Cybertronian bodies did not need mattresses or bedclothes.

-Sidhe Chronicles -

A bitterly cold wind chased Sam Witwicky to the door of his apartment building. Behind him, the bus discharged its last passenger and pulled out from the curb with a hiss of brakes and a cloud of exhaust. The other disembarked riders scattered swiftly, for it still got dark early and the temperature dropped rapidly as night approached.

Sam picked up his mail and took the stairs two at a time. It was Friday, which meant Capitol Hill had seen the last of him until Monday morning. He'd had a long and very interesting afternoon meeting with some important people who, before he started this job, had been known to him only as names and faces on _Meet the Press_.

He had a fascinating job, working with people he admired, and he was learning astronomical amounts about the gears of government.

This was his dream job, possibly leading into a career. He was good at it. With a little research, he could usually figure out how the senator or congressperson he was lobbying could turn the vote Sam supported into political capital at home.

He would have had the perfect life for a young, upwardly-mobile professional, if his heart hadn't been in Mission City.

He fumbled with his briefcase as he opened the door, then grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and unwrapped the deli sandwich and chips that he had picked up on his way home from work. He consumed them as he went through his mail. Then he took the rest of his beer to his chair and flipped the TV on, channel-surfing.

Nothing caught his interest. He settled for 24-hour sports and unfolded his newspaper.

After a few moments, he tossed the paper on the coffee table. His energy was still all over the place, partly from the meeting, partly from loneliness—he missed Bee and Carly with an actual ache—and partly for a reason he couldn't identify.

Sam knew some sure ways to get there, and the easiest to use was right outside his front door. He would run the stairs.

His gifts were still in many ways a mystery to him, but one thing that he had learned was that they worked in the background while he went about his daily activities. When they found a correlation between seemingly unrelated facts, they alerted him.

However, he did not have a HUD. Instead, he got a nagging feeling that there was something he should be doing. When he calmed himself and focused, the reason for his disquiet would come to the front of his mind.

In this case, a couple of ascents and descents later, what surfaced was the certainty that something was bothering Bumblebee.

It was the third time Sam had experienced that certainty. The first time, he had been concerned that something was wrong with Carly, and he'd called home in the middle of the night, only to be reassured that she was fine, except for people ringing her phone at all hours. The second time, he had narrowed it down to something concerning Bee, but the scout had assured him that nothing was wrong at home.

He would be coming home in a few weeks anyway as Carly's due date approached. But this time, he was absolutely certain that something was troubling Bumblebee, and that it had to do with his Guardian's mission to Mexico last month.

He could call Bee, and get the run-around again. His Guardian would not want to worry him.

Instead, he went back to his apartment, got on the computer, and booked the next flight to Vegas. He threw a few things in a bag, called a cab, went through the shower at high speed, and had just tied the second shoe when the cab horn sounded.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz and Prowl were quietly working at their respective desks. Prowl was monitoring the base's security cameras and other sensors, while Jazz was analyzing the mass of data that his web spiders collected from the internet every day. They were often silent when working so for joor at a time, intent on their respective duties, each comfortably aware of the other's presence at the edge of their fields.

Today the silence was broken by Jazz' surprised oath. "The Pit's that?"

He set the live feed to keep recording and searched within the records for a previous juicy bit.

And there it was, and it was unmistakable. "How th' Pit?" said Jazz, his brow plates knitting.

His mate having sworn twice in two sentences, Prowl said, "What's got your skidplate in a vice?"

"Oh, this." Jazz set the feed to play on the large screen between their desks.

Even from satellite range, the gray, insectile spinyness of a downed Decepticon flying frame was unmistakable; and there, beside that image, was a recent geotagged amateur cellphone photo of the same wreckage. Prowl knit _his_ brow plates. "How long has that been there, and how did we miss it? How did the humans, until now?"

For answer, Jazz ran the tape made during the previous flyover. There had then been a disturbance in the surface of the playa in northwest Nevada, but snow cover made it impossible to say if that was the wreckage of a Decepticon flier.

What else could it be, though?

"Where is this place?" Prowl asked.

"Good chunk east an' a bit north of Reno," Jazz said. "About five hundred miles from us. If there's a middle of nowhere, that's it."

"Eight hours' travel, if one obeys the speed limits."

Jazz grinned. Of the two of them, he knew which one did and which one didn't. "I think OP oughta see this," he said to his mate.

"I agree."

Later that day, Wheeljack was assigned to fetch back the remains.

Shortly thereafter, Ratchet burst through the door of his lab. "I'm here to give you a pre-mission physical. Find a place to sit."

Wheeljack turned the burner under a merrily-bubbling test tube down a bit, and then, realizing that he was going to lose this argument, down a bit further. "I'm going five hundred miles, not to the moon," the inventor said reasonably, and chose a place to sit.

"Uh-huh," Ratchet replied. "And I imagine you'd like to stretch your legs a bit on the way, so I'm just going to make sure you don't bust a strut while you're doing that. In-vent, please."

"It's what I do best," Wheeljack replied, and grinned at Ratchet when the medic snarled, but refrained from wrench throwing (only because he hadn't brought his own, and would have had to ask Wheeljack where he kept his; Ratchet regarded using a mech's own tools to whang him one as a serious breach of etiquette. And besides, he grudgingly admitted to himself, he sort of kind of maybe liked Wheeljack a little bit maybe. On alternate Thursdays. Maybe).

After Ratchet glowered him fit for duty, Wheeljack recharged in the sun through most of the second and third joor. At 6PM, tank filled with energon mixed with jet fuel and reagent-grade alcohol, he left, taking I-15 in Reno's general direction.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It was nearly three in the morning when Sam Witwicky got to Vegas. He called Bee and asked to be picked up at the airport.

He saw the familiar yellow Camaro and sprinted over. "Hey, Bee, how's it going?"

"Things are...fine."

Things weren't fine, and that was why Sam was here. He asked, "Bee. What's the matter?"

"What...do...you mean?"

"Something's been wrong ever since you got back from Mexico, and I want to know what it is."

Bumblebee hesitated, then replied, "Mexico. When we...extracted...Rumble...and...Buzzsaw. Cartel...chased us. Ran...some...off the road. Rumble...shot...helicopter down."

"They had a helicopter? They were chasing you with a fuckin' helicopter?"

"And...rocket launcher."

"Shit! I don't blame you for being scared, Bee. That sounds like crazy town."

"Yes. Roads were...primitive. Couldn't...outrun. Had to...fight...humans. Many humans...died."

Sam figured it out. "Yes, Bee. You _had_ to. If they'd caught you—if we'd have ever found Fig and Simmons, their heads would have been fifty miles from the rest of them. You know this, right, Bee? They didn't leave you a choice. They had a rocket launcher, for fuck's sake!"

"But...Prime's orders...not to kill humans."

"Did he give you shit about it?" Now Sam was getting mad.

"No! Said...nothing...to me."

"What did Mearing say?"

"Just...could we...remember...any details...not in...reports. We left...nothing...out. She said...OK...and that...was all."

"Damn straight. Bee. Nobody in their right mind ever wants to kill _anyone_, human or Cybertronian or whatever. But you don't always have a choice. Sometimes it's them or you, and drug smugglers, almost by definition, aren't in their right minds. You're a soldier, Bumblebee, you know this. I'm sorry you had to do that, but I'm glad you brought your team home, and got those two little monsters out in one piece too. You did the right thing."

Bee made a turn against a yellow light, and traveled another few hundred feet, putting together a smoothed-out sequence of clips. "I should not have been able to disobey the Prime's command."

Sam sat bolt upright in the driver's seat. "Wait, what? What do you mean, not able?"

"Optimus...almost never...uses...Prime...command...glyphs. He gives...orders...phrased as...requests. Directions. Not commands. Except...that one."

"But you _had_ to, Bee. It was them, or Fig and Simmons." Sam took a moment for himself, pretending to drive as LV police looked them over. "Besides, didn't I tell you to look out for them? Especially Simmons, with that leg?"

With that, Bee's conflict resolved itself. "Yes. I had not...kept that in … conscious memory…until now."

"So as much as protecting yourself, you were protecting two humans, one of whom would find it hard right now to defend himself, from other humans. I know why Optimus gave that order. I mean, a lot of humans are scared of you anyhow. If one of you stomped somebody, especially if they couldn't see why, they'd freak, and then where would you go? And most of the time, some human with a pop-gun isn't going to be a threat to you. But that was different. If the guys who died had rocket launchers, they were credible direct threats to you, Bee. I hope you're never in a situation like that again."

"Yes...me too."

Sam felt the tension leave his Guardian, and sighed, relaxing himself. "Let's go home."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

By the time they got through base security, it was a little after four. Sam grabbed his bag and got out. Bee commed Prowl, and then said, "I have to go."

"Are you OK now, Bee?"

"Fine," Bee replied, and this time, Sam believed him.

"See you tomorrow, buddy."

"Late...tomorrow," Bee teased.

Sam stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled innocently. He didn't think Carly would be interested in anything that would make him late in the morning, but if she was, he was not going to decline.

Bumblebee whistled and chirped laughter, then turned and drove up to the site.

Sam let himself in and called out, "Anyone home?" Brains and Wheelie were on guard duty, so he never assumed that he could barge in without announcing himself first. If they were going to monitor the well-being of his pregnant wife, he was going to take them seriously: just as seriously as he took Bee.

"Sam? Is that you?"

"Yes, honey, I didn't mean to wake you."

"Is something wrong? What time is it?"

Sam went into the bedroom. "It's about four or four-thirty, I guess."

"Not that I'm complaining, love, but what are you doing here? Your leave doesn't start yet. Is something wrong?"

"Not any more, I don't think. Bee was upset about something that happened in Mexico, but I think it's all right now."

"Got him sorted, did you? Come to bed, it's too early to get up and fix breakfast."

Sam settled happily beside his wife. He was dog tired after the long flight, so as soon as she settled in his arms, he fell asleep. Carly lay awake for a long moment, enjoying his simple presence beside her, then let her own eyes close.

End Part 2


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimers in Part 1

[WARNING: This chapter contains extremely violent child abuse and the death of a child. If you think you might be triggered by that, please do not read. Feel free to ask for a short chapter spoiler by PM if you choose not to read the chapter but still would like to know what happens in it.]

Eastgate Compound

Missouri

Shad White was not sure of anything, any more. He shivered, and in the few drops of light rain that penetrated into the cow byre, David Grybowski's arm came around him, offering comfort.

He leaned into David's embrace. But there was no comfort to be had in Shad's world.

He had assumed that he was straight, just not interested in girls yet; that had happened to friends of his.

He had assumed that he was in the company of people who welcomed him among them; that he had found true time and again.

He had assumed that within his family, he was in the company of people who loved him, and would not harm him; that too had been his experience.

He had assumed that he was being raised among people on whom he could depend to teach him the skills he needed to survive as an adult; that he had begun to question. Shad had wider interests than were encompassable on a farm.

He had assumed that the God he believed in was the same God as Reverend Dowling's; that he had given much thought to.

But all of these beliefs, the bedrock of Shad's existence, had been and continued to be mistaken. He shivered under David's warm arm.

"Shad, what's goin' on?" David said. "You sick?"

"Sick at heart" is what he wanted to say, but he didn't. Instead, he continued to stare straight ahead of him. "No."

"What troubles you?" David let go of Shad's shoulder and threaded the fingers of that hand through Shad's.

"I can't tell you, David. It scares me."

David was silent for a moment. Then he said, "When you can, you know I'll want to hear it."

"Yes."

They had agreed to meet one another that night after lights-out. Shad, sneaking through the compound to the cow byre, had given himself an extra half-hour to avoid the sentries; his sandy-blond hair picked up even moonlight if he wasn't careful. David, being dark where Shad was fair, had simply stayed in the shadows.

Shad found space for both of them in among the cows, who trusted Shad: he didn't give them shots, or help them birth. He only milked and fed them, in both cases to their great relief. Shad was an okay guy, in bovine eyes.

The Other was a stranger, but he moved slowly and talked softly, and he was with the okay guy, so the herd gave David the benefit of the doubt.

Without getting up, the cows had shuffled their great bodies over to make room for the boys. Their byre was warm in the March night; those same great bodies put out a lot of heat. It was in the high thirties outside, sinking fast, but inside the byre it was warm.

Shad finally looked at David, and saw only concern in the warm brown eyes. He gulped, and took the plunge: "David…I'm gay."

David chuckled.

"No, I'm serious! I'm gay!"

David took Shad's hand into his own. "Well, so am I," he said peaceably. "But you hadn't figured that out yet, huh? About yourself, I mean."

In misery, Shad shook his head.

David didn't let go of Shad's hand, but leaned back against the wall of the cow byre. "When I got to know that about myself," he said, "I was pretty scared. I knew I couldn't tell _anybody_. Not _anybody_, not here, and I don't go anyplace else. They'd kill me. Dowling's off his rocker, you know, about gays."

"So's Marian, so's Zeph, so's all the rest of the Neilson family."

"Yeah, that's true. This compound ain't any place to be if you're gay. I'm sixteen next month, and that's old enough to get a job. I figured on running away. You want to come with me?"

Miserably, Shad shook his head. "I won't be able to work for three years."

"Well then. At least you'd know you had a friend outside." David squeezed his hand lightly. "Wish you'd reconsider, though."

"I can't leave my family yet."

"Okay. If I go, I'll send you a postcard; I'll get it all set to mail so you'll know the day after. It won't have any words on it, just a picture of a giant person. Okay?"

Shad nodded.

David added, "Don't be scared if I just disappear."

The cows were restless, suddenly, turning all their heads to stare at the two boys.

Shad ignored them. "David…what do gay people do about sex? I mean, I've seen the bull calves mount each other, but…"

"That's mostly it." David let go his hand. "I can't tell you any more, since I don't know myself."

The herd burst to its feet just as the Reverend Horton Hanford Dowling and Zephariah Neilson burst through the door of the byre.

"Where are you, you little perverts?" Dowling screamed. "Come and be delivered up unto the Wrath of God!"

Shad had thrown himself across David when the other boy tried to get up, hissing, "No! Stay down!" Now, both of them bent double at the waist, he dragged David to the other side of the herd, all of the cows on their feet with their heads lowered toward the two adults. They would, with little further provocation, charge.

The milking herd had all been dehorned, but that didn't mean that a large, heavy head, swung hard at a frightening intruder, would not do a great deal of damage when it landed: nor that sharp hooves which concentrated the weight of heavy bodies would not compound that damage once the intruder was down.

The two men knew cows well enough to read those signs, and made no move to enter. Shad reached the far side of the byre behind them and shoved David through a hole left by a kicked-out board, wriggling himself through seconds later.

"Get home!" David said. "Stay safe! I'll see you later!"

Shad ran. But by this time the two men had had the bright idea to lay flat and look for human feet and legs. There weren't any. They ran out of the byre just as Shad made the nearest patch of heavy shadow.

David was racing across the open area beyond which the brush lay, and the taller trees in its center offered dark pools of concealment. Dowling, though, was quite fast for his age, and Zeph right behind him, both men perhaps fifty feet from David.

David had reached the encroaching brush of the pastureland, though he hadn't yet crossed the fence. His foot hit a half-concealed root, and David went down. His head hit another rock, this one half-buried.

He didn't get up when his two pursuers reached him.

The compound's sentries, roused by the noise of flight and pursuit, were following, and perhaps a hundred yards away. Dowling hissed at Zeph, "Get rid of them!"

So Zeph went wobble-kneed back the way he had come, and once in full sight of the two sentries bent nearly double and put his hands on his knees, heaving in great lungfuls of air. "'S nothin'," he gasped out. "I thought I saw somebody, but it was just a deer."

The two sentries exchanged glances. "You sure, Zeph?" the older of the two said.

"Yeah. Me an' the Rev was havin' our last walk-around; we was talkin' late tonight. Ain't nothin' to worry about. Take up your posts."

They glanced at each other, then nodded to him, and returned the way they had come.

When he fought his way back through the brush to the spot where their quarry lay, Dowling had bound David Grybowski's hands in front of him with David's own belt, and gagged the boy with his own and David's handkerchiefs, twisted together and tied cruelly tight. David's tongue was pulled up to the roof of his mouth, the corners of that mouth cut by the thin cloth rope.

The boy's eyes opened. It took a few moments for sense to return to them, and then they darted fearfully from one man to the other. Blood began to stain the handkerchief gag.

"Pick 'im up," grunted Dowling. "We'll take him to the junk shed."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Six o'clock was the tail end of rush hour, but Wheeljack found the highways too crowded until about 8PM for any bursts of speed. He wasn't able to really put the pedal to the metal until he had only 30 miles of freeway left to play in.

But just before he reached the Clark County line, blue lights pulled out of a rest stop behind him, and began to flash in his rear-view optic.

Wheeljack sighed. He was nowhere near the top of his range, but outrunning the deputy was one thing; outrunning her radio was quite another. And he really did not want to hear what Optimus would have to say about such a maneuver, unlike the Big Twins, who seemed to think that _any_ attention was better than _no_ attention.

Wheeljack pulled over.

The lights pulled up behind him. Wheeljack's holo driver had once been the recipient of a cop-finger shaken at it, which had amused the inventor no end. Of course, he had only been doing 70 at the time, not twice that, and the radio chatter revealed the presence of a multi-car accident ahead. Police officers, Wheeljack had thought at the time, must have a very good set of priorities.

He put up the driver holo, and ran down the window before the Clark County deputy whose name tag read "Martin, S" got there, resting the holo's hands on the door frame where the officer could clearly see them. Traffic stops, he had read, were very dangerous for patrol officers. Someone they pulled over could be crazy or on drugs, or both, and armed. Dangerous, in short.

"Good evening, Deputy Martin."

"Sir," the woman said, "do you have any idea how fast you were going?"

"Yes. One hundred and forty-two point seven eight miles per hour. Of course, this is a slight upgrade; on the preceding downgrade I managed to reach one hundred and forty eight point four three."

The deputy's mouth thinned. "Your license, insurance, and registration, please, sir."

Motor vehicles capable of highway speeds must be insured in most states, and Nevada is no exception. Further, in Nevada, someone named on the registration must hold the insurance. Nevada is also one of three states to permit the licensing of autonomous cars.

So Wheeljack said, quite politely, "I do not have a license, Deputy Martin. I am a Cybertronian. What I have is registration as an autonomous vehicle, my insurance certificate, and a green card. I need to transform into my root, bipedal, mode, to get those for you."

"You stay right there, sir," said Deputy Martin, and went back to her vehicle. She had already run Wheeljack's plates, so now she dug her smartphone out of a uniform pocket. There was a time to be Deputy Martin, and a time to be Shannon Martin, wife and mother: she sent emails to her husband, her parents, and her children, telling them she loved them.

Then she took a deep breath and got back out of the car.

"Very well, sir," she said. "Please give me your documentation."

He transformed and did that little thing.

The deputy swallowed her heart back down into her chest, as a Cybertronian transformation is a very noisy event, and took them back to her car to run the identifying numbers: all valid. Then she returned them to Wheeljack. "Thank you, sir. I have a question for you, if you wouldn't mind."

"I'm always happy to answer questions." The inventor subspaced his papers.

"Is it true that you can sense cars coming beyond line-of-sight?"

"Oh, yes, quite true."

"So you going a hundred and forty—that's pretty damn fast, sir, I gotta tell you that—that was actually pretty safe for drivers around you."

"Oh, yes. I should not so indulge myself if it weren't. I habitually travel with my sensors fully extended, so I can't be surprised by someone pulling out unexpectedly."

"All right. I won't stop anyone I can ID as Cybertronian for speeding. It's my job to keep people safe, and Cybertronians driving at high speed aren't a danger."

Wheeljack made a Note to Self _not_ to tell the Big Twins about her conclusion.

The cop pulled out her smartphone. "May I take a picture of you, sir? My kids are big fans."

"Shall I make it take one of us together?"

"Awesome! Please, if you would." She set the phone on her hood, Wheeljack sat down, and once they were satisfactorily arranged he sent the electronic pulse that fired the shutter.

Throughout her career, that picture was prominently displayed on the desk of Shannon Martin.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

David did not make their journey cross-country away from the compound and to the storage shed easy for the two men. He couldn't keep his feet. Zeph twisted the skin over his wrist painfully and hissed, "You get to walking, pervert, or you die right here!"

But David couldn't, or wouldn't. When Zeph snarled and raised his fist to the boy once more, Dowling hissed, "No, don't! Let's get him out of sight!"

The junk shed was a rickety ex-bale barn, used intermittently as a slaughter site before becoming the junk shed. It was sided only well enough to keep the grazing animals out, and had been allowed to decline along with its contents. The roof sagged, the floor was covered in sharp-edged metal castoffs, and the interior was dark as ink.

Neilson paused, one hard hand still around David's bicep, and dragged out a penlight to clutch in his teeth. Its jigging circle lit a way for the two men, but not for their burden. David's muffled cries of pain were not heard outside the structure as his legs and feet were dragged into, then across, the metallic junk lining the floor.

About two-thirds of the way in and almost exactly dead-center, the long chain and bar, once used to suspend animals for dressing still gleamed dully in the light, heavy hooks spaced along it. A small cabinet to one side of it held the discarded tools of that trade, among them an old lantern.

David's hands were jerked above his head, and the belt slipped over one of the hooks hung from the bar. Zeph Neilson ratcheted the bar up using a lever mechanism to one side, stopping only when the boy stood on his tiptoes, most of his weight borne by the bound wrists.

Neilson scrabbled in the ruins, giving Dowling a chance to get the lantern lit. When he had, Dowling shoved his face into David's and yanked the bloodied gag out of the teenager's mouth. "Who was with you, boy?"

Without giving David a chance to reply, he punched the child in the belly, again and again and again, left, right, left, right.

David vomited on him, and began sobbing.

Neilson by this time had located two short lengths of what looked like bicycle chain but came from a very old tractor. He donned gloves he found on the cabinet, and wrapped the lengths of chain around his knuckles over them. While Dowling tried to clean himself up, he began to punch David with the chains, in the face, over the ribs, in the gut, each time saying, "Who was with you, faggot?"

David sobbed, "No one, no one!" over and over, stopping only when punched in the belly. With every strike over an already-punched area, his skin broke. The two men could not see it, but the fine spray of David's blood saturated the air, and began to precipitate onto the junk.

Dowling came to stand beside Neilson. "Lay off a minute, Zeph," he said. "I got a better idea." He took a gutting knife from the cabinet, and cut David's shirt and jacket free. "Gimme one 'a them chains," he said.

Neilson handed it over, and Dowling used it as a whip on David's naked back. The boy screamed and jerked with each blow, trying to turn away, but Dowling simply followed him. Nine blows later, David's back was a red mass.

Dowling approached him, and yanked his head up by the hair. "You gonna tell me now, faggot?"

"No one," David sighed. "No one."

Dowling used the chain-whip on his face, and one side of David's mouth disappeared in a wound.

Still, David held his silence. He held it through losing all the skin off his back, having his other clothing cut off, being whipped on the legs and over the ribs until he was bloodied everywhere. So much of his skin had been removed that such an injury alone would prove fatal.

Neilson let the whip drop; he had been working on David's legs while Dowling, the white showing all around his eyes, began to drool while he applied the scoring links to David's abdomen and belly. David's head drooped, and he no longer cried out or flinched.

Neilson said, "Wait up a minute, Horton." Fastidiously, he removed his handkerchief from a pocket, wiped the spatters of blood from his glasses and his watch, then cleaned David's neck.

Rough fingers shoved into the groove the carotid artery traverses on its way up the neck. David's head wobbled away from the force, and he did not raise it.

Neilson concentrated. "No pulse," he said finally. "An' I kep' a eye on that big wound under his eye, and it ain't leakin' no more. Little faggot died on us."

"I have a viper in my bosom," Dowling said.

"You sure as hell do. You wanna go get a bucket a' water for us to wash in, or dig the grave? Second thought," he said, looking at the amount of blood on both of them, "you get the water, say you got a deer if you get seen, an' I'll take care'a this."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Leah Neilson rose from her bed, troubled.

As the youngest, and the only single, in her family, she had a room of her own. It might be the top room in the house, not very warm in winter and not very cool in summer, but it was hers and hers alone.

Thus no one else noted her rising at one AM. She donned her heaviest robe, went to her window, and sat on the crate that she had draped with a quilt, looking out over the moonlit compound.

Leah was unquiet in her heart over the information she'd been given as a result of her prayers; that Aunt Marian was a temporary affliction was of course welcome news, but that her insights that Reverend Dowling was not a righteous leader were in fact correct and should be acted upon...that was very troubling.

Because how, when you are eleven, do you remove yourself from the sphere of the unrighteous about you? And if your parents are among the unrighteous, what do you do then?

Movement in the moonlight attracted Leah's attention. The Reverend Dowling himself came crabwise out of the darkness, and scuttled across a half-lit stretch of open ground to another patch of darkness. When, briefly, he turned, Leah moved back into the shadow of her room: the moon revealed Dowling to be splattered in blood from head to foot. In the moonlight, it was black, but Leah had seen her father and brothers return from a day of hunting often enough to know that it was blood and not black paint she was seeing. Dowling drew a bucket of water from the side of his own house, and returned the way he had come.

Leah felt the proof of what she had been told pound through her to the rhythm of her heartbeat. She returned to bed, but sleep would not come.

Patiently, she chased down the source of her unease: it proved to lie in the ewe barn. In that barn, the family held a long-worked for asset: an imported Clun Forest ewe, whose milk, rich in butterfat, sold for premium prices to local cheese makers. Her lambs brought in good prices too, when they didn't provide tasty meat for the family.

And Leah became aware that it was in fact Rosemary who had drawn her attention. Rosemary was eight now, getting on in years for a ewe, and was having trouble lambing.

The family half-expected it when she didn't lamb in February with the others. But she had been late to conceive...

Leah got dressed, and went to wake Robbie.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It was still an hour to pre-dawn lightening of the sky when the two men staggered out of the junk shed.

At his home, Neilson tossed his clothing down to Dowling through the bathroom window, and showered very thoroughly. Dowling, who lived alone, used the fireplace to burn their bloodied clothing to ashes.

And Leah Neilson, returning to her family home from the sheep barn, where Rosemary had required her ability to heal through the laying-on of hands, saw this. She returned to the sheep barn, said she would sit with Rosemary for a while, said she was too keyed-up to sleep yet, asked God to forgive her her lies.

Her brothers believed her. "I'll see you at six," Robbie said, and touched her shoulder lightly. Leah nodded, and sat down in the straw next to the dozing ewe and her twin lambs. She thought, for some reason, of Shad White, whom Shankie liked.

Shad White had cried himself to sleep three hours earlier.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Bidding Deputy Martin goodbye with a wave and flash of lights as she drove away, Wheeljack traversed the balance of the freeway at legal mileage per hour.

In Clark County, anyway. His late-night toddle down a deserted US 95 proved to be more temptation than he could handle.

Eventually his route carried him onto smaller and smaller roads at slower and slower speeds. He finally exited the roads entirely, moving onto the playa where the wreckage had been found. That surface was heavily pockmarked even from space, unwelcoming to anyone's alt mode. Wheeljack transformed to walk the last five or so miles.

It was now two-thirty in the morning, and still dark. In the wrinkly basin and range territory which comprises much of Nevada, the foothills are riddled with abandoned mines. The ore-bearing strata were largely responsible for the poor radio, and other frequency, reception, in the flat, sandy playas sunk below them.

Wheeljack wondered if he were being set up, and would shortly find himself Soundwave's prisoner.

Once he saw the wreckage, however, he was reassured. It was extremely unlikely he'd be faced with survivors.

He concluded, wrongly, that the slight trace of energon he detected probably came from the flier itself. He set his sensors to ignore it.

There didn't seem to be anyone near the helicopter parked on a nearby mountaintop—as flat as the playa itself. Wheeljack shrugged, transformed to root mode, unsubspaced his trailer and hardlined to it to transform it from compact to usable mode. Once that was done, he began to stack crumpled pieces of the Decepticon flier into it.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Shad did not see David that next morning. He remembered what David said, though, and didn't worry. In a day or so he'd get a postcard.

The church elders weren't around much that day. Only one stopped by and said point-blank to Shad, "Where were you last night?"

Shad blinked at the man. "Asleep. Why?"

The man shrugged. "Not your business," he said shortly, and Shad turned back to what he was doing before his eyes gave him away.

Just before they broke for the evening meal, a boy Shad did not know well touched his elbow as they trudged back to the barn, carrying the tools they used that day. "One of the elders ask you where you was last night?" he said to Shad.

"Yeah. You too?"

"Yeah. Wonder why."

Shad shrugged. "We'll find out eventually, I guess," he said. His pulse pounding in his ears, he went on to the tool lock-up, and cleaned and replaced the items he'd used that day.

He'd get David's post card in a day. That would be a load off his mind.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The work was about two-thirds complete, Wheeljack estimated, at 6AM; there was not yet enough for a human to see by, so he was very unlikely to be observed.

When one of the creatures came walking out of the foothills twenty minutes later, veering toward him in the almost-darkness, he was surprised, but not alarmed.

The man bore an odd-looking object on his shoulder, and said, once within hailing distance, "Hey! You're Wheeljack, ain'cha? Hate to interrupt what you're doing, but I got some trouble here, an' I know you're an inventor. Could you take a look at this for me?"

Jack sat down on the ground to minimize the height distance between them, and said courteously, "Certainly. What is it?"

"'M workin' on a new kinda metal detector," the man said.

"Oh, you're an inventor too."

"Yeah," the man said. He unshipped the long, ungainly object, setting what looked like a handle down on the surface of the playa, so that the business end of it pointed up. "It's supposed to be pickin' up nonferrous metals, gold, silver, copper, nickel."

Wheeljack peered into a glass bottom which housed a number of coils and integrated circuits. "Ah. The ores that were first found in Nevada. Well, let's pull the trigger, and see what happens."

The man pulled the trigger, and Wheeljack slowly and majestically toppled sideways onto the surface of the playa.

"Guess _that_'s what happens," DeWayne Sturman said.

End Part 3


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimers in Part 1

With the addition of Rivet and the civilians she led, the work of preparing the Mission City base for expansion was going much faster than expected, Roadbuster thought with satisfaction. He'd be able to report to Ironhide, or even to the Prime!, that they were ahead of schedule. He turned back to his crew, and smiled briefly before sinking a shovel.

Five minutes later and two inches deeper, Roadbuster, Leadfoot, and Topspin all stopped their shovels in mid-dig, and looked at one another. Bulkhead and Hot Rod looked at them, then at each other. Bulkhead said, "What's goin' on?"

"It's Jackie," Roadbuster said. "He just…dropped outta the cohort bond."

"You gotta go get him," Bulkhead said. He looked at Rodi, watching both of them with that settled intentness that was so new to the young bot. "Can we help?"

Roadbuster made several decisions. "We'd be glad to have you along. Will one a' ya tell Rivet she's got the conn, here? We're on our way to see Prowl, maybe Optimus too."

Roadbuster and his crew transformed and took off, and after a brief but very explicit jerking of thumbs, Hot Rod went to Rivet, while Bulkhead followed the other sept.

When, some minutes later, Rodi knocked on the door of the conference room and was bidden to open it, Wreckers of both septs, Lennox, Graham, Ratchet (looking as flustered as anyone had ever seen him), Optimus, Ironhide, Prowl, Jazz, and Silverbolt were gathered around the table.

"Rodi, hello," Optimus said. "To catch you up, Silverbolt will fly the rescue party, all the Wreckers, as well as Ratchet, Ironhide, and myself, to the site we know Wheeljack was last at. We will then parachute in. Silverbolt and his brothers will form Superion to fight with us if need be, and provide air support if not."

Thirteen minutes later, the rescue party was in the air.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It was daylight before Sam and Carly got up again. Carly woke ravenous and got into the refrigerator for the ingredients for a fry-up. Sam came out of the shower with a towel around his hips. "Something smells good!"

"Home-style breakfast!" she replied, cracking eggs.

Sam made toast while she dished up everything else: sausage and bacon—bangers and rashers, rather—beans, mushrooms, and slices of tomato. The kettle whistled and she poured hot water into the teapot. Sam brought the tea tray to the table. "Man, I wish I could come home more often."

She laughed. "Contrary to popular belief, we Brits don't have a fry-up every morning any more. But your son is hungry!" She grinned.

"You're looking so good." Sam hugged her gently, negotiating the altered topography with care.

Carly made sure he knew she returned his affection. "Is your mum still emailing you all those horror stories about everything that can possibly go wrong?"

Sam, nose nestled into the juncture between Carly's neck and shoulder, said, "I mentioned to Dad that she was doing it, and he put a stop to it. She was making me a nervous wreck. It's bad enough to be stuck in DC, but that..."

She smiled, and he stepped back to pull her chair out for her. "It won't be long now."

"How have you been doing?"

"I get tired in the afternoons, and walking in the heat really makes my feet swell," she said, "But those things are minor. I get my walking done before it gets hot, or I wait until after the sun goes down. I'm getting impatient waiting. Everyone says the last month is the longest."

"I don't know...when you were throwing up every morning, that month was pretty long too."

"Probably because it was six weeks," Carly said, eyes laughing. "True, I have to admit, I'm glad that's over. Have you seen the nursery yet?" She finished plating the food.

"No. Came in, warned Brains and Wheelie I was here, went straight to you."

"It's finished. I'll show you after we eat."

Sam followed her lead and put some beans on his toast; not bad. "Do you need any help writing thank-you notes for the shower gifts?"

His wife gave him the smile that showed up in his dreams from time to time. "It will go twice as fast with both of us working on it. And I can show off all the shower gifts to you; everyone was very generous."

Sam quickly found that addressing envelopes was his forte. Thanking someone he barely knew for the gift of a sitz bath this person was convinced his wife would shortly need was a little beyond his compositional skills. Carly smiled serenely and assured him that it was a very thoughtful gift. Sam looked at the contraption and decided he didn't want to know.

The variety of baby clothes was a little more interesting. "How can a whole human being fit into one of these?" Sam asked, holding up a onesie.

"That was my first question. Sarah says that when he comes, he'll actually swim in those, unless he's a very big baby. And he'll grow out of them fast."

"Wow. Will we be spending half my check on baby clothes?"

"No. The spouses have a clothing exchange. You bring in anything that's still in good condition, but too small, and take things in the size your child needs. They've started accepting toys and so forth as well, now that they have a room that's large enough in the new quarters."

"Sort of like a co-op thrift store."

"Exactly."

Sam held up a tiny camo tee-shirt with the NEST logo printed on it. "Now that...is disturbingly cute."

"That's from Sarah. She had them printed for Annabelle and Amaranth, so she had that baby tee made as well. They gave me Annabelle's old baby buggy, as well."

Sam folded the miniature garment and began addressing an envelope to the Lennoxes.

Once they had the stack of cards done, Carly proudly showed off the nursery. "I didn't have to lift a finger. Sarah organized the spouses to decorate the day of the shower. I had to buy a crib, because no one had a spare one, but everything else came from someone on base. Sunstreaker took the window out so that he could get his servo in, and painted."

Sam looked at the mural of a road scene that surrounded the room. Beside the road were places like the base front gate and Mr. Najantdahl's store, as well as other locations in Tranquility that Sam remembered very well. The elementary school, the library, his parents' house, a playground nearby, the Dairy Queen, a toy store. Excellion was there as well.

And, on the streets, the sidewalks, in the yards, and in the windows of the buildings, he saw everyone who lived on base, hundreds of them. Right over the crib was Bumblebee, with Sam and Carly, and Carly was holding a tiny baby.

"Oh, my God, _look_ at this!" Sam exclaimed, and began studying the mural to pick out individual people. There were the Tiny Trine and Dr. Parker in her ultralight, flying circles around the school.

"He said the mural isn't, strictly speaking, a painting. It's a photo manipulation, and he printed it on the wall by spraying tiny droplets of paint. It was absolutely fascinating to watch him do it."

"You've taken pictures already, right?"

"Of course I have!"

"Good."

"Sam, I think everything's done. All I have to do now is produce a sprog."

"And they're still saying the end of March?"

"Around then. Especially with the first one, you never know. Babies come when they're ready."

"Oh! The last ultrasound. I haven't seen it yet."

"It wasn't an ultrasound. Ratchet did a scan, and it's a three-dimensional hologram. I'll show you. He gave me a little projector and loaded the images on it."

She took a black disc about the size of a CD out of the drawer, and Sam recognized it as the same sort of device that Jazz had used to create his hologram, only smaller. She turned it on, and a ghostly image of the baby appeared.

Sam gasped, and had to stop himself from reaching out to touch the image. It was only a projection.

"He's upside down, is he supposed to be upside down now?"

"Yes, this is about the right time for him to do that."

"Oh, my God. Look. He has eyelashes."

Carly leaned closer. "He does," she said. "I've looked at this for hours and I never saw that before. He's absolutely fantastic, love."

Sam put his arm around her and they didn't move for a long time.

Wheelie whistled for attention, and the young parents-to-be turned to him and Brains. "What is it, guys?"

"We wanted to ask you something. It's really important, so we'd understand if you wanted someone else to do it. But—if you want us to—we'd like to be Daniel's Guardians."

"Are you sure? Do you need to get permission from Optimus?"

Wheelie said, "Already talked to him. It's fine with him, but it's up to you. Our custom is, a sparkling's parents are its primary Guardians. But almost everyone picks a few secondary Guardians. I think it's kind of like godparents, but it's usually more than just two. I know Bumblebee will be one, but we'd like to do that too. What I was thinkin' was, Bee can't go to school with him and watch out for him all the time, but Brains and I can. Especially Brains. Kids take laptops to school all the time."

Brains nodded.

Sam said, "That is a brilliant idea, don't you think, Carly?"

"It is. It's a fabulous idea. We'd be honored. And, Brains, Wheelie, I don't know if I ever said this, but I owe you two an apology. When Sam and I first got together and were living in DC, I didn't treat you well. I didn't understand then that you were mechlings. I thought you were pets, so I treated you like pets, and that was terrible of me, very, very wrong. I am so sorry."

"Well, we were pretty spoiled. I'd have put us out on the balcony too," Wheelie grinned. "Chicago was a big wake-up call."

Sam, looking serious, agreed. "It was that for all of us. When Gould and Soundwave took you, Carly, I just—it was like the world came to a massive screeching halt until I knew you were safe."

"I know. I was terrified for you too. But it's over now."

"Yeah." They held one another for a while; at some point, Brains and Wheelie left.

"How long can you stay?" Carly said finally, breaking the embrace.

"I've got a flight back to DC tomorrow evening. I wanted to get back to the apartment in time enough to get a few hours' sleep before I go to work Monday."

"Did you want to visit Ron and Judy while you're here?"

"Yes, if you feel up to it."

"Oh, that'll be all right! They've made me feel at home there. They gave me a key, and I keep some clothes in your old room. It's such a short drive that Judy and I run errands together all the time."

The two of them planned their weekend, unaware of Wheeljack's adventure, or a storm brewing in Missouri.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Wheeljack's chronometer showed that he hadn't been out all that long, though unusually he didn't have the unwritten-to-memory file for that "out" period…so what in the Pit was he doing in a very deep hole in the ground?

He knew it was very deep, because he had a resonant silence where his comms usually were, and nothing at all flowed through his clan bond to the other Wreckers.

His comms hadn't been disabled and locked down; that was an absolute absence of input, not this haunting echo.

Also, the four walls around him were rock: roughly dressed and native. One wall possessed an opening through its center, but an EMP field of some power zipped and sparkled across the narrow passage. It did not fill it; there was enough room at the bottom to pass an energon cube through. That wasn't large enough for Jack himself to skinny past, though.

He wasn't to know that Pierpoint had been happy to redesign the zapper to which he had fallen for that use.

So he was underground, his comms still active, and confined to a small space. If the comms were gone, that would point to Soundwave. But they weren't. Was that human he had met shortly before whatever happened to him, happened, somehow responsible?

He got himself to his peds, and tried the simplest form of test, sticking a servo into the EMP field. If only mild discomfort resulted, he would simply walk out of the small hollow in the rock that presently surrounded him.

When he woke the second time, he had a fierce processor ache.

A human leaned on the rock wall just on the other side of his—cell—door. "I hope you won't do that again," the human said. "For one thing, we don't know how to fix you. You gave us quite a scare."

Jack, not fully online yet, gazed at him. When his HUD was green across the board, he said, "You're not human! I thought you were! How very interesting!"

The—Pretender, Wheeljack realized—cocked his helm to one side. "How do you know that?"

"Oh, you throw off energon exhaust fumes. No human does that. Also, your energy field is Cybertronian, not human. Therefore you must be a Pretender! Oh, how delicious!"

The Pretender did not reply.

"But if you don't follow Optimus, which you don't or I would know you, and you aren't with Soundwave, which you aren't or you would have done some things to me that you haven't, who _are_ you?"

"We are a group of humans who would have died had we not made the transition to Cybertronian bodies." The person squatted outside Wheeljack's cell.

Wheeljack sat up. Once vertical, he realized that the non-human was all one-colored, except for the whites of his eyes: hair, skin, and iris showed only minor variations of a lightish brown. Jack's optics shuttered and re-opened without conscious effort on his part. "Oh my! Reverse Pretenders; that is quite astonishing. How was it accomplished?"

The other hesitated. "We don't quite know that. We know how to make the transfer likely; we don't know how to ensure it. One of us died in the attempt, possibly because of it."

Jack's optics brightened in a way that usually shut down his fellow Wreckers' audials: geekly enthusiasm had been tapped.

The Pretender had other fish to fry, however. "Wheeljack, since we aren't associated with your group, or Soundwave's, we need some information on how to keep these—frames—in good repair. We want you to provide it. In return, we will free you unharmed."

"Yes, yes, of course. Of course you will. And in return I wish to examine all of you—you do know, don't you, that I have the beginnings of healer training?"

"No," the Pretender said, "we didn't know that. We chose you because you're an inventor, and probably know something about how frames work. We also knew we could lure you out. Ratchet was our first choice, but after watching footage of the Battle of Chicago, we weren't touching _him_ with a ten-foot pole."

"That is very wise of you. It would take a pole much longer than ten feet to ensure your safety with Ratchet! But why not Jolt?"

The Pretender smiled. "Because he couldn't be lured off the base with what looked like the crash of a Decepticon flier"

Wheeljack narrowed his optics. "That was not something that 'looked like' a crashed 'Con flier,' it _was_ a crashed 'Con flier How did you come by it?"

The other hesitated, and Jack felt agitation in his fields. "For various reasons, I can't tell you that. I give you my word that it was known to be in the custody of reputable persons and has been returned to them without alteration."

"Without alteration" in this case meant "in the same way that an egg which has been scrambled is still an egg."

Jack smiled. Oh, so they were going to play verbal strateka! "What is your word worth? After all, you are a …the human term is 'kidnapper.'"

The other grinned. "I can't argue with you there. What I _can_ do is ask you if you have an energon cube about you. If you do, I'll set it in the sun with ours."

"No, I don't. I was provisioned for this trip."

"I see. When you get close to yellow-lining, comm one of us, and we'll bring you a cube."

That was a gesture of goodwill, and should likely be met with another. "Very well, though I hope not to be among you that long. Tell me, please, why a group of humans decided to do this."

"Most of us were living in bodies so compromised that death was either imminent or too far off. It's that simple."

Jack cocked his helm to one side. "Yes, and a powerful impetus. But why did you choose Pretender frames to inhabit?"

The other shrugged. "There's no workable alternative presently available with Earth technology. And Chicago taught us that we needed to be able to protect ourselves, 'ourselves' being all of humanity. We chose to try this so that we could protect Earth from the 'Cons if it was successful."

"What is your attitude toward Optimus Prime? He is my leader in both the military and the spiritual sense. I cannot undertake anything that will compromise his safety, or his plans."

"We won't ask you to. So long as the Autobots have no plans to conquer or exploit Earth or its inhabitants, we are not their enemies, nor they ours."

Wheeljack's cables lost some tension he didn't know they had. "We've stopped calling ourselves Autobots, you know. We're all Cybertronians now. That said, it's true that there are active, unapprehended Decepticons who do not subscribe to that idea still on Earth, and off it as well."

The other nodded. "I see. —We aren't Cybertronians, though. We're humans, in Pretender frames."

"True." Jack reached a decision, and paused just long enough to implement it. "I will help you as you wish. Do any of you read Cybertronian?"

"No."

Wheeljack copied some files to a data-stick, and detached it from his wrist port. "That is an enormous disadvantage with our HUDs. Here are the language files." He leaned forward to place the stick on the floor by the field that kept him pent, then flicked it with a digit. It jumped and bounced its way beyond the barrier.

The Pretender didn't touch it. "How can we be sure that this isn't a virus?"

"Oh, you can't be," Wheeljack said cheerfully. "Further, I could have designed one in a sandbox after my second awakening, so that it didn't affect me, and loaded it onto the stick."

The Pretender stood. "But if you incapacitate us, you'll redline from fuel deprivation."

"Certainly. An unpleasant death, I believe. So you see, cooperation with your goal of being able to care for yourselves is in my own best interest. Freeing me as soon as possible is in yours; my cooperation thus forwards both our goals. There is another factor, though, of which you may not be aware. My cohort—my family, if you will—are all very much larger mechs than you, or than me. We neither misplace nor abandon one another. If anything happens to me, or if you do not release me shortly, you will be in great jeopardy from them. In Chicago, they tore a Decepticon to pieces with their bare hands."

This Pretender, Wheeljack was interested to see, was disciplined enough not to give the Swallow of Alarm, a mechanism he had frequently seen in humans; he could feel that it had been a matter of stifling the impulse, however. "We saw that footage. It was instructive, if unpleasant. Fortunately for us, however, we have no desire to harm you at all. If you play fair with us, we'll play fair with you."

"Good! I must admit to a certain curiosity about you. When you feel it appropriate, I am looking forward to examining all of you."

Scott Glasco smiled, and bent to pick up the stick. "I'm glad we can do this amicably," he said, and departed.

Wheeljack sat down with his back against a rock wall. The Wreckers were coming for him, and he had done his part to make himself easy to find. Nothing was left to do now but wait.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Glasco ambled down the rock corridors of the mine to the larger "room" where his troops were hanging out, with the exception of Reis, who was taking the flying-frame rubble to a dump spot nearby and calling 51 to let them know where it was. He'd be back soon, if he wasn't already.

Glasco tossed up and caught the stick. This was no time for grandstanding, so no one in the chain of command would be allowed to guinea-pig using it first. No one essential, either. That crossed Glasco himself, O'Leary, Kirsch, Ruggles, Pierpoint, Reis, and Zain off the list.

Michael Sunderland, on the other hand, already had some grasp of Cybertronian, and could serve as their quality control as well as their guinea pig.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Fourteen minutes into Silverbolt's flight to the Pretenders' location, Frankie Reis set down the helo and climbed out, going into the scrub pinyon for cover on his way back to the mine.

Ten minutes after that, Reis sensed a large Cybertronian in the air. It wasn't the first time he had sensed one.

This flier could have been Silverbolt or potentially one of the large Decepticons; he had no way of knowing. But he picked up his pace.

Reis met Augie Delancy just around the "corner" to the entrance of their mine, enjoying a cigarette under more of the pinyon.

"Augie, what the fuck?"

Delancy looked sheepish, and pinched out the butt. "I had half a pack at transition. I'm usin' 'em up. But they don't taste good anymore, and they don't do nothin' for me.—Who's that overhead?"

"Don't know but they aren't landing." Reis knew that because the noise of alt-function had dwindled. "Throw the damn things out. —Why are you broadcasting our location?"

"I'm not—" The thunder of heavy bodies impacting the ground whipped both their heads around.

Optimus Prime made a rolling transformation, and came to a stop far too close to their mine entrance. Ironhide was right behind him. Behind them, Ratchet, a gaudy red and orange paint job, a big green bot with a wrecking ball for a fist, and the three other Wreckers all transformed, rolled to a stop, and re-assumed bipedal mode.

The two didn't know who the gaudy one and that green bot were. They hadn't been on the list of possible targets. Therefore, while they may not have been as dangerous as Ironhide, they were known to have battle experience.

And all seven of those massive helms swung directly toward Reis and Delancy.

"Holy crap," Delancy said, "we gotta get outta here!"

Reis grabbed him, hard, by the arm. "I'll get back to the chopper and try to lead 'em away from the mine entrance! You wait until I distract 'em! Shut your goddamn location broadcast off!"

"Location broadcast?" Delancy said. But Reis was gone.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

As Reis pounded his way up to the mesa where the bird was, a Pretender arrived at Jack's cell door. This one was identical to the first, except for fields that reminded Wheeljack less of Prowl and more of Perceptor. He was accompanied by another, also identical, of yet another set of fields, who held _that_ weapon.

The weapon was a threat, and Wheeljack wanted to cower away. But something more interesting presented itself, and curiosity trumped almost everything else in Wheeljack's processing queue. "Do you all have identical alts?" he asked, astonished.

"Yes," the Pretender said, and like the first of Wheeljack's visitors, squatted outside the cell, but unlike him pushed a cube under the field blocking the door. "Energon, if you need it," he said, and moved into elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of him.

The other Pretender stayed at the back of the tiny "room" outside Jack's cell, weapon charged, from its emissions, and at the ready.

Wheeljack scanned the contents and emptied the cube.

"So how can I help you?" he said, calmly, in English, and then the echoing silence in the cohort bond stilled. _Not long now, it won't be long now_.

"For reasons I will not go into," the other said, in perfect Cybertronian, "I was chosen to be our medic."

Jack's brow plates elevated. "I see."

"I injured myself in training. I'd like you to take a look at the repairs we made."

Jack said slowly, "I will need to put my servos on your frame to do so. How do you propose we accomplish that?"

"My co-worker, here," the Pretender said, gesturing at the other, "will cover you, while I turn off the barrier and enter. Then he will switch it on again. You've already been hit with that weapon twice. If you need a third dose while you're treating me, I'll send him a click. I hope you won't make that necessary."

End Part 4


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimers in Part 1

Augie Delancy, his optics so wide the white showed all the way around them, raced up the foothills toward the other side of the mine entrance, which was, thank Whoever was looking out for them, hidden by more pinyon. Frankie Reis scrambled back the way he had come.

When Reis got within sight of his ride, he found a Cybertronian in root mode sitting in the shade of the Chinook to play mumblety-peg with a four-foot blade.

"Oh hi," Slingshot said. "You are in sooooome deep slag, mech."

Reis spun on his heel and sprinted back the way he had come. When he neared the mine entrance, he found that Delancy, yelling "No! Don't hurt me!" was leading the pursuing Ratchet and Ironhide a merry chase through the pinyon and away from the mine itself, his smaller size an unexpected advantage in the close cover.

However, that advantage did not extend to Reis. The three Wreckers, along with the other one, the gaudy one, and Optimus Prime all turned their helms toward _him_, and every single one of them narrowed his optics. The gaudy one said, "Oh, _there_."

Oh Jesus oh Jesus oh Jesus. Reis surpassed himself in the matter of speed, and panic gave him an extra kick as he raced toward the mine entrance. The big one couldn't get in, and maybe the rest of them, with that magic gun of Pierpoint's…

Once into the cool darkness he bellowed at the top of his lungs, "They're coming after us! Get the gun! Get the gun!" and kept running.

There was a muddle of mechs at the mine entrance until Roadbuster pulled Topspin and Leadfoot out of the way and lunged through the door.

Rodi was the last in, but even he, tallest of the Wreckers, could stand upright. He took a moment to simply stand still and identify the fields around him.

Optimus sent, ::It's too small for me; I'd have to crawl. Good hunting.::

::Thank you,:: Rodi sent, and let his fields range out ahead of him.

There were a lot more of the—others—than they first thought. More than twenty. Rodi sent a pulse, with suggestion, to the Prime, and went on down the mine, stopping where his comms began to fade. He could still communicate with Bulkhead through the cohort bond, though, and thus relay messages.

Above ground and a good half-mile distant, Ratchet laid servo on Delancy, and hissed, "You stop struggling _right now_ or I will tighten my grip!"

Ironhide gave him a look of surprise, and then, upon receipt of a comm from Optimus, laughed.

Ratchet laughed too, and to his captive's intense surprise, subspaced Augie Delancy.

They returned to the mine entrance. Hide and Optimus went to work.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Well," Wheeljack said, merry suddenly, "it seems as if healing has taken place, and the repair is adequate to most stresses." To Derek Pierpoint's intense relief, he stopped testing the range of motion of the ankle joint the medic had damaged in training, but didn't put it down. "Ratchet would have done some welding, but I don't imagine that's possible to you?"

"No. Not yet."

Vic Kirsch, who was guarding this interaction between their prisoner and their medic, snapped his head around. "Fuck," he said, "there's a bunch of Cybertronians in here with us!"

Wheeljack tightened his grip on Pierpoint's ankle. "Kill the forcefield immediately," he said to Kirsch, "or your friend here will never walk again without another reformat. My family has come for me."

Kirsch didn't need to look at Pierpoint to shoot Wheeljack.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Rodi, who remained at the deepest part of the mine where he could get, and relay, comms, sent Optimus' instructions on ahead.

The Wreckers stopped chasing Reis, and went into the deepest tunnels of the mine. Then they began shouting to one another as they worked their way upward, noisily scouring each tunnel in the mine free of Pretenders as they slowly ascended.

When it became clear to Glasco what was happening, he ordered O'Leary, "You take point with DeWayne and Coop. I'll make sure we got everybody. _Go!_"

Glasco then spent several nightmare minutes flitting in and out of the Wreckers' sights, to the accompaniment of several shouts of, "There he is! _Get_ the little Pit-spawn!"

This was, of course, uttered in Cybertronian. But now Glasco could understand it.

He found Wheeljack lying unconscious in his cell, the force-field still on. He killed it and ran on; there was nothing else to be done. The bot would come online or he wouldn't.

O'Leary, Sturman, and Cooper all hit Ironhide's sticky net, held taut by the Prime and the weapons specialist at the entrance of the mine, and struggled fruitlessly within its bonds. O'Leary shouted, "Find another way out! This one's trapped!" and sent it across all the comm lines, too.

It came too late to help most of the Pretenders. Caught between the Wreckers and a sticky place, they crowded into the entrance, staying clear of their trapped comrades.

Glasco, last of them all, backed slowly into the tunnel, every Wrecker following him, hunched over with eagerness to get to business.

Rodi stepped out of the shadows, the sound of charging weapons was heard, and the crowd drew into itself. "Kirsch," Glasco said, "put the gun down. Slowly and carefully. Do it now." He raised his hands into the air.

"Good," Roadbuster growled. "Now alla you who can, kneel down an' put yer hands behind yer head."

Optimus and Ironhide removed the net from the entrance with the three trapped Pretenders still kicking and fighting within it. Ironhide took one look at that mess and heaved a very heavy sigh.

"Surrender, an' I'll get you outta that," he said. "Keep fighting, an' eventually you won't be able to move. Ratchet'll come around and shut you down, an' we'll transport you while you're in stasis. Up to you."

Glasco shouted, "What are you proposing to do to my men!"

Optimus said calmly, "No harm will come to them. —You are their leader, I gather?"

Glasco felt defeat settle onto his shoulders. "Field commander. Scott Glasco, at your service, sir."

"Optimus Prime, Mr. Glasco. If you will surrender to us, I will accept that surrender, and none of you will come to harm in our custody."

Glasco was a realist. "I will surrender to you personally, sir, but I am not a military commander and cannot make that decision for any of my troops."

"Very well," Optimus said. He sent a ping, and Ratchet unsubspaced a very surprised Augie Delancy, setting him in the cave with his fellows. "Where is Wheeljack?" Optimus said. "Ratchet wishes to attend to him. Will one of you guide him to our comrade?"

Reis gulped. "With your permission, sir," he said to Glasco, "I will."

Glasco nodded curtly. Optimus said, "One moment, young mech. I wish your personal surrender to me before you do that. You will come to no harm if you cause none; you have my word on that."

Reis stood his ground with a being four-plus times his own height. "And how do I know your word is good, sir?"

Ironhide _growled_, a low rumble began inside Ratchet, and every Wreckers' browplates met. Optimus shushed them all with a servo. "The answer is that you cannot, but I don't believe my past behavior would lead a reasonable being to doubt me. As we cannot now spare the time for research on your part, why don't we do this? You establish comms with your group, and I will remain in touch with Ratchet. When Ratchet is with Wheeljack, you will return here."

Reis got another nod from Glasco, and said, "Very well, sir." He glanced at Ratchet, and said, "This way, please."

Ratchet detached his remote and sent it after Reis, which freaked out every single Pretender, Reis included. "I'll explain this to all of you later," the remote growled, in Ratchet's voice (which was about three times too large for it). "_Right now_, take me to Wheeljack."

The Pretender and the medic said nothing at all to one another on the way. When Ratchet saw Wheeljack, the empty cube lying next to his outstretched servo, he said curtly, "You fed him."

"We meant him no harm," Reis said.

"You've got the Pit of a way to show it. Dismissed."

Reis picked up the cube and absented himself. Once he returned, he found that Glasco and the others had offered their surrender to Optimus. He glanced again at Glasco, who nodded, and did the same.

The prisoners filed out of the mine, Kirsch was sent to collect those cubes presently making energon, while the Earth sept of the Wreckers made a beeline for Wheeljack. Optimus offered a palm to Glasco, and said, "Come with me, Mr. Glasco. We have some talking to do. It will be a few moments before Silverbolt can land to take us back to Mission City. Mr. Reis, you are the pilot, are you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Optimus, please, for all of you. Now Mr. Reis—"

"Frankie, Optimus."

"Thank you. Will you fly your bird with us, or leave it here?"

Frankie Reis glanced once more at Glasco, who shook his head slightly. "I'll leave it, si—Optimus."

The Prime commed Bulkhead. ::I want to know where that bird goes, who picks it up, who owns it, who rented it from them. You tag it for us, and I'll set Prowl to the rest of it.::

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Primus take it all," Ratchet snarled, "I thought you were dead!"

Wheeljack blinked open optics that didn't work quite yet. "Ratchet?" Static buzzed through his vocalizer. "I thought..."

The clan bond was immediately filled with rejoicing.

Wheeljack winced. It was a bit like being greeted by a truly bad-mannered dog when terribly hungover, _and _coming down with the flu: everything presents itself all at once in a large, loud, bounding, slightly smelly package, which makes the recipient's helm hurt worse than ever and unsettles his fuel tank as well.

Ratchet was reminded quite strongly of Steelie. His remote rounded on the other Wreckers, all stuffed into the small space that led to Wheeljack's cell. ::Back off and give him a klik or two!:: he sent. ::Primus, you lot, _space_ and _silence _and _time_!::

The remote might have been no more than knee-high to any Wrecker but was still Ratchet. They shut up, and backed slowly out of the entry.

Wheeljack, under Ratchet's ministrations, smiled with his optics closed. Ratchet glanced at him sharply, and said, "If you're going to offline on me, Jack, keep your optics open. That way I'll know when it happens."

"Not offlining," Jack said, and the shutters came up.

"Good. Follow my finger."

"Anywhere," Jack said. Ratchet scowled in two places at once.

From the playa, looking at the full-sized motionless Ratchet in front of him, Optimus sent, ::Anything wrong?::

::Nothing!:: Ratchet snapped. Optimus turned away to smile.

Not liking the manner in which his finger had been followed, Ratchet ran a series of tests. The Wreckers edged back into the anteroom, huddled silent and still behind the medic, their anxious optics on Wheeljack. Ratchet spared a thought for what must be crossing the cohort bond. Some few minutes later, he said, "All right, we're ready to get you out of here. Jack, can you walk?"

Jack couldn't, and Roadbuster carried him.

Ratchet might have been amazed to learn that the "Back off" he'd first sent to the Wreckers had been heard not over comms, but the cohort bond. But nobot who valued his aft would have brought that up to him at the moment. The Wreckers trailed along behind Roadbuster and the medic, and for once in their long lives, left well enough alone.

Ratchet wasn't surprised at all to find that Wheeljack had given the Pretenders a virus along with the language files. It compelled them to broadcast their location continuously on a single frequency, which it also forbade them to monitor.

Wheeljack being Wheeljack, it was also very easy to get rid of...for Ratchet. Anyone else would have had the Pit of a time.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

This civil, expensive, well-designed office was a poor place, Calvin Torvald thought, to be frightened out of his mind.

But he was such a good lawyer that his fright level was not observable: this because there was a real possibility that his entire career was circling the drain. "What's our course of action, Mr. Hastings?"

Hastings thought, "This whole thing could not have gone any more wrong if..."

But that thought trailed off in the face of Hastings' own unbending honesty. It could very well have gone far more wrong. No one among his people had been killed; none of them had even been injured.

He could let Zain take the fall, and there was enough money sitting in an offshore bank to assure that Zain would do just that.

But that would mean abandoning the project, and Hastings was not prepared to do so, for a number of reasons.

When you're far enough in the hole, you might as well shoot the moon. "I'm going out there to see what kind of damage control I can accomplish."

Torvald shifted in his seat. "Mr. Hastings, as a co-conspirator, I will not be able to represent you if it comes to criminal proceedings. We'll both be standing in the same dock, sir. I strongly advise you to have representation."

"Don't think this is going to get tried in open court, son."

"...If you say so, sir."

"It's better if you get some distance. You can claim that figuring out the legalities of locating the project in Portland was the extent of your involvement. You didn't have any way of knowing what was going on next door at a paintball field."

Torvald fidgeted, and Hastings watched beads of sweat collect on his forehead. "Sir, I—this is going sound out of character for me, but I...I can't make that okay. I'm a Chicago boy. I was lucky to be sick at home on the North Shore when the Battle of Chicago took place, because otherwise I'd have been at my desk on the forty-seventh floor when the building was hit. I do my fighting in a courtroom, not with a rifle. But Zain and the other guys put their lives on the line, and right now they're in trouble for doing that on my behalf. I owe them more than pretense. So unless you think I can do more good here than out there, I'd like to at least go along and offer what advice I can."

Hastings nodded. It wasn't often you got to watch a boy become a man, but with that decision, Calvin Torvald had made the transition. "Good to have you along, Mr. Torvald," Hastings said, and punched the button for the intercom. "Mrs. Haley, tell them to get my plane ready for two passengers. I'm going to Vegas."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus Prime watched the Pretenders, under the stern eyes of his frontliners and Ironhide, who while technically not a frontliner was every Decepticon's worst nightmare made metal, troop into a large open space hollowed out from the cliff near the Wreckers' other work site.

Fliers would get the top level, once the cliff dwellings were complete, where they could always see the sky and get out quickly in case of a scramble. Everyone else would have the choice of an exterior space with a view, or something completely enclosed that stayed several degrees cooler.

If they got it right, and being Wreckers they _would_ get it right, a lot of ventilation would be available to the ground floor, always drawn from the shaded side. The stone floor throughout this level would serve as a heat sink. Hot air would rise through a central vent, drawing cool air from the commons up through the levels. The vented air would escape through the flyers' courtyard.

Most of the year, this "air conditioning" would be convection driven; it would be necessary only to open the right doors. In high summer some AC would probably be needed to overcome the heat that the bots gave off.

The level the Pretenders marched into was completely empty, but it was finished: had lights, air circulation, and water.

It had been designed to replace the commons in Hangar B, presently used to meet the needs of both humans and bots. That made this area perfect for the Pretenders, who were essentially both. They had everything they needed to be comfortable, and the space was also perfect in the Prime's eyes: the enclosure made it very simple for his mecha to guard these unknown quantities.

It was an interim solution; the Wreckers were drawing up plans for a brig in case it became imperative to lock the Pretenders up. Optimus hoped it would not come to that. As Prime, his sense of them was that they were good mecha who did not need to be imprisoned to safeguard their fellows against them.

One by one, Prowl checked each Pretender in, standing next to every one long enough to get a good recording of his spark signature: to be used in case they decided to steal an identity to get off base. Once Prowl disseminated those recordings, bots on gate duty would be able to recognize them up close no matter what they looked like.

Prowl knew that would work only as long as the Pretenders did not know that making such a match required close proximity—the examiner had to be within touching distance. Medics could scan a spark signature from a greater distance, perhaps a hundred yards.

Right now, these Pretenders were a miserable bunch. Each one signed in, and had the Wheeljack-reinforced zip tie cut off his wrists. Each one was issued a folding cot in lieu of a berth, and told to set it up and sit down on it.

Once all of them had done so, Hot Rod passed out their daily ration of energon. Each one drank sitting on the cot, then resumed staring at the polished stone floor underped. Rodi then circulated a second time and collected the cubes to set in the sun.

Once they were settled, Optimus looked them over one last time. During the flight back, most of them had ditched the identical alt, and now they looked...probably like they had before transition, he realized. (He couldn't know it, but most of them had indeed scanned their no-longer-occupied former frames immediately after transition.) The younger ones had left it at that, while most older Pretenders had chosen an apparent age in their mid-thirties. None showed signs of the various injuries and illnesses that had brought them to this point; they resembled ordinary men.

A few, more confident in the transition now, were in root mode: their optics were the range of colors seen in the civilian population early in the war, before nearly everyone had chosen red or blue.

Optimus reset his vocoder to get their attention, and twenty-six helms turned toward him, though not all of them made optic contact. He asked, "Do any of you have medical needs which have not yet been addressed?"

He was answered by a thunderous silence.

"Very well. This is your situation: among Cybertronians, you have the status of belligerent neutrals. It is our policy to detain such individuals to make certain that they harm neither human or Cybertronian, nor come to any harm themselves. Your needs will be met, and you will be permitted the supervised movements and activities which you earn.

"Your status with the humans has not yet been determined. If you attempt escape, you will be retrieved and locked up. If you succeed in escaping this base, you will become the responsibility of Nellis AFB security forces or of the Clark County Sheriff's Department, depending on where you are captured. At that point, I will no longer have any influence upon your fate, and your existence will become known to the general population, which presently is not the case. For that reason, I would advise you against leaving."

Some of them were looking him in the optics now. He saw, and sensed, both distrust and hope.

"If you remain here, you will have the opportunity to learn more about the Cybertronian way of life, and to join our community if you so choose. If the humans decide that you are no longer welcome among them, you have a place with us. I suggest that you learn all that you can while you are here, and be patient. You have demonstrated restraint and an unwillingness to harm us. We intend to return that courtesy as long as you permit us to do so.

"After a raid by the remnants of the Decepticon forces, we are very short on supplies. We will share with you what we have, which is why we have confiscated your energon cubes. You will, as we do, have the opportunity to recharge from the grid, which will allow you to avoid using energon to generate electricity. As you earn our trust, you will be permitted time out in the sun to produce a certain amount of energon of your own. Our medics will instruct you individually.

"If you need anything, ask your guards. We will attempt to grant reasonable requests. So long as you create no trouble, you will not find any. Those who do create trouble will find it returns to them."

Beside him, Hot Rod and Sideswipe grinned, first at one another, and then at the assembled Pretenders. Translation: unnecessary.

Optimus said, "This is my second in command, whose designation is Prowl. My third in command is Sideswipe." (Sides gave the Pretenders a friendly wave which deceived nobot at all.) "Prowl has more information for you."

Prowl had consulted with Lennox concerning the proper treatment of human prisoners: these Pretenders had to be treated as if they were members of both species. After some discussion, they set up a limited local network with no access to the internet, and created a library of educational and entertainment files which the Pretenders could access at will. This library included several human diversions which the bots had adopted.

Prowl passed that on, and told them, "We do not permit gambling, as it is not allowed on Nellis AFB property. Other than that, if there are other games that you would like, we can probably scan them for you. Ebooks and movies can be acquired for you as well. You may request access to television programming which is available on the internet, but the feed will be monitored, and you will not be permitted any other internet access at this time."

Zain spoke up. "Some of my boys would like to see the chaplain."

Prowl said, "I will call his office and arrange a visit. Anything else?" They remained silent. "Our medic has some information for you."

Ratchet nodded to Prowl. "I'm the Chief Medical Officer, Ratchet, for those of you who don't recognize me. Congratulations, you've all earned a _complete _physical. I'll be pushing the schedule out to you shortly. If you miss your appointment and make me find you for any reason less dire than a broken femoral strut, you'll regret it."

One of them, he never did identify which, made a very small noise like "Eep." The others did not argue with that assessment, but shuffled their peds and shuttered their optics briefly.

Ratchet smiled very, very briefly at this tribute to his reputation. "I'll see you all later, then," he said, and a certain aura of pleasure accompanied him back to medbay.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

A few hours later, Optimus had nearly finished reading and signing a datapad full of reports on the Pretenders when the officer of the day called him. "Sir, they've got a rich guy and his lawyer down at the gate, says he wants to talk about the Pretenders and he won't talk to anyone but you."

"Very well. If they clear security then bring them to my office."

"Yes, sir."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sideswipe pinged Optimus for entrance.

Two humans accompanied the frontliner. "Mr. Hastings," Sideswipe said, indicating a tall spare older man with very short iron-gray hair, "and Mr. Torvald, who is his legal representative." Torvald was younger, almost as tall, and blond where Hastings' hair, to judge from his brows, had once been dark.

Hastings...the name threw up a memory file, though Optimus' processor had had to hunt through several file cabinets, as it were: this man had paid for DNA sequencing to be done on otherwise-unidentifiable human remains in Chicago.

There was the small ceremony of showing them to the top of Optimus' desk—Optimus noted that both were sufficiently fit to make it to the top without panting—and the ceremony of offering coffee. Both declined.

Optimus sat, folded his servos in front of him, and said, "Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you today?"

There was a long silence. What Hastings said, finally, was, "We...I've caused you a problem."

"Oh?" Optimus said. "How so?"

"It's my people you have detained after they attempted to kidnap Wheeljack, which was done at my instigation."

"Was it indeed," Optimus said. "You're correct, Mr. Hastings. We have a great deal to talk about, though I am reluctant to classify any of it as a 'problem.' Let's begin with how you managed to transfer human sparks to Pretender frames."

"Derek Pierpoint will be able to give you the technical details. It happened to him first; that was an accident. We"-—he nodded to Torvald—"figured out how to attract people who might be willing to attempt transfer. We set several criteria, one of which was an expected survival of less than six months, or a quality of life so degraded that the person had expressed an interest in suicide."

"I see," Optimus said, benign as only someone who can kill you by stepping on you, but won't, can be. "So the persons we presently have in custody are all legally dead, is that it?"

"Yes."

"Can that be undone?"

Calvin Torvald stirred. "There are methods in place when a person has been missing for an extended period of time, and is found. I don't know how the law would accommodate our men's situations, sir: their deaths were legally documented. Many of their bodies could be exhumed for examination if a coroner chose to request a court order to do that; for the rest, crematory records exist. It can be proven that they have no physical basis to claim existence.

"They made arrangements for the final disposition of their belongings; that was executed lawfully. There is no provision for this particular situation under existing law."

Optimus leaned forward slightly. "So they willingly gave up everything to do this, with no guarantee that they wouldn't all end up dead or in prison."

"That's what they did," Hastings said. "Let me ask you a question, Prime. What if the next time the Decepticons, or whoever else is out there, decides to attack an American city, you and your people aren't available? We need to be able to take care of our own house."

"Mr. Hastings, that is precisely the philosophy behind NEST. If we are not available, NEST becomes the first line of defense against Decepticon incursions or any other threat of a similar magnitude."

"I see. So it was a good idea that someone else had also had."

"Yes. Let me jump to the real concern here, the fate of your men. I cannot in good conscience allow them to leave this base, because I am very concerned about what might happen to them should the general populace become aware of their existence. Two small Cybertronians, once Decepticons, were captured by a drug cartel. They were treated as chattel, and had we not intervened, would have been sold to the highest bidder, likely an arms dealer."

Hastings' jaw dropped. "They were captured by _humans_? I didn't know that was possible."

Optimus made the social motions of a smile, but it didn't reach his optics. "I can ask them to confirm it for you if you like."

Hastings waved a hand in negation. "Your pardon, sir, I didn't intend it to sound like that. I have no reason to doubt you, and I accept what you say as true. I simply didn't know it was possible."

"It is, with a small mech as target and a lot of preparation. Your men now classify as 'small mecha.'"

The two humans glanced at each other.

Optimus went on, "Therefore your people would be targets of the same kind. Director Mearing, who runs NEST for your government, tells me that she cannot be certain various elements within that government will not be just as much of a threat to them. She, by the way, and those of her team who need to know, are aware of their existence, as is the President, the Secretary of Defense, the head of the NSA, and the President's Chief of Staff."

"Then where do we go from here? These are my people, Optimus Prime. I can't simply...walk away. Cal here has the same feeling."

"Then do not walk away, Mr. Hastings. I offered my protection to your people in the full knowledge that these are not mecha to accept protection from anyone. Nor do I believe that they are at all willing to join my army. Their loyalty lies elsewhere: to the country of their birth, and their comrades.

"NEST shares your men's loyalties. It is composed of multiple sectors, each focused on a certain specialty. I believe that your men would be a perfect fit for such a sector. This solution would offer them the safety of numbers, leave their loyalty to their country unquestioned, and allow them to continue their mission. Your support would ease their assimilation into NEST considerably."

Hastings knew Optimus had him over a barrel, but he was still going to get everything out of the deal that he could. "That's a good deal for them, and it would free me up to devote my resources to finding, vetting, and recruiting new members of the team."

Optimus said, "You would have to discuss the specifics with Director Mearing, but your success so far cannot be questioned. I would be conditionally willing to support that, upon a thorough review of your selection standards."

"Of course," Hastings agreed. "I'll get the paperwork to you as quickly as I can."

"Very well. In the current economic climate, I believe this arrangement will be much more palatable to the Department of Defense if you continue to fund the recruitment side of it."

Hastings said, "Yes, I'd like to do that." For him, it was classed as a future investment: you had to spend money to make money, and when the technology went mainstream a few years down the road, he stood to make a lot of money. "Uncountable billions" about covered it.

And, dammit, it was the thing he wanted to do.

Torvald said, "If our people are going to be working for the government, then they should be recognized as people under the law. Director Mearing can make that happen?"

Optimus smiled the Grade One smile humans who were willing to think of others first earned. "Indeed, Mr. Torvald. Cybertronians have been recognized by your government as sentient beings, and so have several other species based on information which we have provided to them. We ourselves are considered legal immigrants. We will do everything possible to get your group's legal status straightened out as soon as we can."

The two men glanced at each other once again. "Very well," Hastings said.

A few minutes later, while being escorted back to his car, Hastings realized something about Optimus Prime. A Prime's first responsibility was to mitigate the threat to his own people, and this Prime had done that: the Pretenders were not going to be kidnapping any more Cybertronians. But in the course of that work, his orders had assured that Hastings' men were captured unharmed, and he was concerned for their safety going forward.

Hastings had not understood at first the differences between Autobots and Decepticons. He did now. Megatron would have lined all his people up and shot them. Immediately.

He had been under the impression, though, that Optimus was the one he had to convince. Apparently not. It seemed he had to deal with this Mearing. He never liked going into a deal with no information about the person on the other side of the table, but if that was the way it was, he would manage. Too much was at stake for him to screw this up.

End Part 5


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimers in Part 1

Charlotte Mearing blinked at Li, her secretary. "What?"

"Optimus Prime is on the secure channel, Director. He has asked to speak with you on a serious and urgent—his words—matter."

Thirty-two seconds later, twenty of which went to establishing an ultra-secure link, she faced Optimus Prime's image and shut her mouth with an effort. "You have _what_?"

Patiently, he repeated himself. "We have captured twenty-five mecha who identify themselves as humans in Pretender protoforms. When captured, they all had this alt"—he transmitted photos of the newly-multiracial homeless man—"but this is their root mode. That's where some of the missing protoforms went."

Mearing stared at the spike-tailed root mode until Optimus reappeared onscreen. "And you have twenty-five of them? Where? Are they confined?"

"For the moment, yes," Optimus said. "Their human bodies have been documented as deceased, their belongings disposed of. I believe that will lay to rest any cries of limiting their human rights: at the moment, they have no entitlement to any."

"I hope you're right, Optimus. But my God, the protests!"

"Silverbolt flew them here from the, ah, point of acquisition. Their arrival seems to have been treated as normal air traffic by those watching."

"Thank God for small favors. What do you propose to do with them?"

"I thought perhaps you might come out here so that we could discuss that very thing."

Mearing swiftly assembled her entourage. Li called her husband; Charlotte didn't have one, but she called Simmons, who phoned his mother. All three kept packed bags under their desks. A scant forty-five minutes later, they were airborne from Andrews.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It was a Tuesday, one of two days in the human week that Excellion used Roller to go places. Every Tuesday, Optimus asked Roller, "Do you feel comfortable going to see Excellion by yourself, and going places with him afterward?"

This Tuesday, as he had every Tuesday since The Experiment, as Optimus thought of it, began, Roller said shyly, "...No."

The pause before denial, though, was growing longer every week. Optimus had hope that it would shortly turn to "Yes, but you come too." And then, in the future, simply "Yes."

But that was yet to arrive, so Optimus said, "All right. Today I am going to be in a meeting for most of the time you are gone, so you will have to come back to his frame with Excellion if you get done early, and I will meet you there if I can. Otherwise you will need to stay in my trailer."

Roller looked troubled. "Okay," he said, "but go see Excellion first?"

"Yes. First you get to go places with him. Let us go see Excellion."

Roller giggled, and led the way.

Several bots and a few humans greeted Roller (not Roller-and-Optimus, but Roller-by-himself, which was why Optimus walked behind his remote by a good forty feet or so) on the way there, and Roller bipped and beeped his greetings in return, which caused Optimus to smile.

Roller didn't have memory sufficient to utilize the full English file, so Ratchet had given him a first-grader's vocabulary, and that seemed to do just as well—the little remote's interaction with humans were never going to be so complex that he needed more than simple greetings and "What's that?"

Roller truly enjoyed the journey to see Excellion almost as much as the activities the young cityformer took him to see, and humans' and other bots' person-to-person greetings to the little semi-sentient remote were a large part of his pleasure.

Excellion's broad face on the screen above his entrance smiled when he saw Roller, and the two exchanged greetings. Optimus lingered a moment, and sent a glance to the door Roller had just passed through. Excellion closed it...and Roller kept going, beeping and booping to the bots within the cityformer. He stopped for a longer conversation with Drift, whom he liked because the Knight of Light's fields reminded him of Optimus'.

That worthy said, "I wanted just a moment to speak with you, Excellion, because today I shall be meeting with a group from the Nellis base commander's office there, and then later here with Director Mearing, Colonel Lennox, and the Pretenders' officers. It may be very late tonight before that second meeting ends. You and Roller have never had any trouble, but I thought it wise to let you know. Perhaps Drift or Hot Rod can take Roller back to my trailer when you and he are finished." Optimus paused. "What had you in mind today?"

"I thought we'd go meet the Pretenders. I've never seen one before, and Roller likes meeting new people."

Optimus smiled. "That should not be a problem, then."

"No." Excellion slid open his door. "He's finished talking to Drift, and started looking around for you."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Excellion's first thought was that the Pretenders were a miserable lot, and his second that they didn't look much like the humans in NEST.

Although confusingly, the NEST humans had all begun using "paint job" as a shorthand for "description," and applying it to either species.

The Pretenders, though, were as randomized a group as any similar-sized collection of humans: various hair, skin, and eye colors.

A few of them were in alt form, a silvery metallic biped with a spiky tail. And in fact, two of them in that alt-form were busy coloring each other with paint sticks. Black. Black as space.

Roller's interest sharpened; Excellion had taken him to see the Tiny Trine a few times, and during one of them Excellion had let Roller run the show while they were there, coloring with the sparklings.

If there was coloring to be done, Roller wanted in on it. He communicated this to Excellion.

Excellion sent to him, ::First we need to let Prowl and Ironhide know we're here.::

Roller felt that Prowl was okay, but he was not so sure about Ironhide. Excellion proposed that Roller greet Prowl, but he, Excellion, would deal with Ironhide.

Paint jobs again. Roller had been equally wary around Barricade, who moved very slowly and carefully to avoid frightening the little remote, until Song jumped into her Guardian's arms. That got Barricade the Roller-pass. But Barricade's paint was solid black, as was Ironhide's, and the solid-black paint seemed to be Roller's problem.

Roller approached Prowl, and bipped a greeting. Prowl returned it, with a smile, and said, "Hello, Excellion. Good to see you again. Can I help you with something?"

"Roller and I have come to meet the Pretenders. I've never known one before."

"Even if you had met one," Prowl said, "that person wouldn't have been a Pretender of this kind. These bots were all sparked human." The strategist cast a benign eye on Roller. "Roller might enjoy speaking with Michael Sunderland," Prowl said, and nodded in that direction. "Michael had the rudiments of our language even before his transformation. He might both learn from and teach Roller."

"We'll talk to him. Hello, Ironhide."

"Excellion." The weapons specialist did not stop a ceaseless scanning of his charges, always on the lookout for incipient trouble.

"Prowl, I'd like permission to see if Roller can help the two bots who are painting themselves. He likes coloring, which he thinks they're doing, but how did that come about?"

"They requested a paint color change, but Ratchet wouldn't perform it; he was not willing to put the materials into mechs who might not stay with us. Hastings assigned them some discretionary funds, so Malik and Kenton ordered black paint sticks. They said they were black before they transitioned and didn't wish to stop being black. I gather," Prowl said carefully, "that for humans skin color is reflective of a cultural difference as much as a cosmetic one. Something akin to asking a Kaonite to follow Praxian customs."

"Oh!" Excellion said. "That makes a kind of sense, then, doesn't it?"

Prowl did not argue with that assessment, and Ironhide did not say, "Silly glitches," which he might have before the sensitivity training Lennox had begged him to take "before you get us all sued right out of our socks." Ironhide did not wear socks and could not appreciate the severity of being sued right out of them; though Optimus did not wear socks either, he could, and ordered the weapons specialist to the training.

Unaware of that, Excellion nodded to both, and the spark-split twins as well. Then he and Roller approached the two largest Pretenders, who were busy painting one another. "Hello," he said. "I'm Excellion, and this is Roller, Optimus' remote, who allows me to work with him."

The larger of the two, whose name Excellion would later learn was Malik, stopped what he was doing and said, "Hey. You the cityformer?"

"Yes, that's me."

"How you get outta that?" said the other, also stopping his own work.

"If my remote had not been damaged, I could transfer most of my consciousness to it, and leave only enough of myself to run things back at my primary frame, which you know as Excellion. Since it was, Optimus allows me to use Roller instead."

"Lonely otherwise, huh?"

"Yes, it would be. Could Roller help you paint?"

"That he could," Malik said. "Ken, he gonna help you paint me first, or help me paint you?"

"Malik, he gonna help me first, I think," Kenton Cooper said. Kenton knew that Malik had neither children nor younger siblings, where Ken's own father had been married to a woman who had little kids when he was in junior high and high school. He had spent a lot of time with them, before his dad and step-mom divorced. They had been good kids. He often wondered where they were and how they were doing.

Roller asked, "I can color too?"

"Yes, you can," Ken said. "This here's your paint stick, okay? When you ready, you shake it up for a whole klick. Then you pull the top off like this, an' you keep that in your other hand."

_Servo_, Excellion sent.

Roller, probably to the Pretenders' surprise, was a very good painter. He did not push so hard on the paint stick that it dripped or left big blobs, once that was explained to him, and he had sufficient patience to stick with the job until it was complete.

Further, he had the patience to start all over again with Ken once Malik's work was done. Ken allowed Roller to paint his, Ken's, face, which was accomplished perfectly, to the accompaniment of many giggles.

Once that was done, Malik asked Ken, "Why Mayhall say he didn't want to do this, again?"

Kenton Cooper held his servo out, digits splayed, for Roller, and replied, "He say he spent enough time bein' a black man an' didn't wanna be black no more."

"Man, that is _messed up_. That bein' black could be that hard, I mean. I got nothin' but respect for Mayhall, man, that guy knows where it's at."

Excellion made a note to himself to research "being black." Apparently, it was more than just a paint job. He said tentatively, "You were human before you transitioned?"

Ken looked at him. "This's Excellion I'm talkin' to, right?"

"Correct."

"We all was. We was dyin', or they wouldna let us do this."

"What were you before you transitioned? I mean, what jobs did you do?"

"I was a Navy Seal. You was milt'ry too, wasn't you, Malik?"

"Army," said Malik, now shuttering his optics to be Rollered. "Got shot up real good in Afghanistan. —Excellion, how you doin' that? Roller's paintin', right? So how you be talkin' to us at the same time?"

"Roller is acting as my remote, but this is a courtesy that he has offered me, as he is Optimus Prime's remote. My permissions to direct Roller are limited, as they should be, which means that I am for the most part a passenger. Roller allows me to move about, interact with others, and experience the world through his sensors. Anything requiring processing resources takes place in my own processor. Therefore, while Roller is painting, I am able to borrow his audials and vocalizer to carry on a conversation."

"So, I'm talkin' to both of you at once?"

Roller whistled and beeped a cheerful affirmative.

"Wow. Wish we could do that."

Excellion offered, "But you haven't been in these frames very long, have you? It's likely you're still learning about them."

"True story." Ken stood up and shook himself. "Good thing you got the quick-dryin' stuff," he said to Malik.

"We still gotta go twenty-four hours to let it set fully."

"I know. But I'm gonna transform, see if that does it any damage."

Kenton Cooper transformed into his human seeming, bearing a marked resemblance to all the other Pretenders save in the matter of hair, skin, and eye color: those were nearly as black as the newly-applied paint job.

Roller watched intently, and when the transformation was complete, he screeched like a new sparkling.

With Excellion still aboard but panic-locked out of any control, Roller ran one tread at maximum speed, and did not engage the other, which pivoted him very sharply toward the door. Next he applied full power to both treads,when sent him hurtling at his top speed for that door.

::Roller!:: Excellion sent. ::It's all right! That's Ken! You painted his face!::

The transmission Roller sent in return conveyed everything without making any sense. ::Nobadawfulhurt_Optimus_!::

Prowl had the presence of mind to open the door for Roller before the little remote impacted it face-first. Once outside, Roller scanned the Admin Quonset for Optimus, failed to find him, and extended his sensors as far as they would reach.

No Optimus; Nellis was beyond Roller's sensor range. Roller shrieked again, made another pivot toward the firing range, and ran for the hills.

Excellion considered his options. It would very likely erode any trust Roller might have in him to override this panicked flight, so it looked as if he were stuck. Wherever they went, they were going there together.

His other option was to abandon Roller, which he would not countenance.

Therefore he sent to Drift, keeping a careful foot in both camps as it were, ::Roller has been quite badly frightened by one of the Pretenders, and is running away with me. Might you be able to help me soothe him?::

::Certainly.:: Drift handed off to Hound, and exited into the camp. ::Where are you now?::

::We're on our way past the firing range.::

Drift sent to Barricade an explanation of the circumstances, and asked, ::Are the Trine airborne at the moment?::

::No. You want them to search for Roller, is that it?::

::It would certainly be helpful if they did.::

Barricade sent the mechlings up immediately and walked Song to her flight frame. The Tiny Trine, to his immense pride, decided on a search pattern and implemented it with speed.

Excellion, in the meantime, had convinced Roller that hiding just inside an abandoned mine was sufficient. If the Scary Person showed up again, Roller would have enough warning to do what he originally wanted to: run all the way down the shaft and into the end of the deepest tunnel the miners had left...where his signal could not be traced.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Back at the Pretenders' camp, Kenton Cooper was mortified. "I didn't wanna scare the little guy!" he said, to both Prowl and Ironhide.

Ironhide's scowl might have lightened a bit. "We know that. It's just that Roller? Nobot really understands him, not even Optimus. He wasn't with Roller when a bad ion storm hit. When he recovered Roller, he found that his remote, somethin' without a mind of its own, now had one. Kinda primitive, both like and not like a sparkling, but independent."

Ken sighed. "An' I scared the hell outta the little guy."

"How could you have known that would happen?" Prowl said. "Apparently, Roller had never been in the company of a Pretender before. In his experience, there were humans and there were bots. There were no bots who could become humans."

Ken shook his head. "Still feel bad about it."

"Tell you what," said Ironhide, whose respect for this particular Pretender had been raised, "when we get 'im back, let's talk to Optimus. Maybe we can find a way for Roller not to be scared of you."

"Be fine," Kenton Cooper said, nodded to them both, and went to sit beside Walker Mayhall.

"You, sir, are a sucker for anyone who's a sucker for sparklings," Prowl observed, once Cooper was out of audialshot.

The formidable optics narrowed. "Somethin' _wrong_ with that?"

Prowl, who was not deceived by his fellow officer's ferocity, merely grinned at Ironhide.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

::I see him!:: Song sent, fifteen kliks later.

The little remote had made very good speed, and was almost off the base. Song sent coordinates, and Barricade forwarded them to Drift.

Stormy had an agenda of his own. He transformed at the end of a landing sequence, and somersaulted in the grit to burn the excess momentum.

Standing, he saw Roller peering fearfully around the frame of the mine entrance. "Hey, Roller, it's me," Stormy said. "Wanna color?"

Roller vanished into the mine.

Stormy was young, but a fine strategist already. He stopped where he was, got out the books and the crayons, and settled in for a long session of coloring in the grit. He would find out later that while this was indeed the right-and-only thing to do, it left his Guardian and his other adult cohort member feeling entitled to a process called "having kittens" while they undertook the extensive process of getting grit out of his transformation seams.

And after that, Ratchet, called in to make sure they hadn't missed anything, birthed another entire litter...

Stormy remained unbowed by any of this. It was the right-and-only thing to do, he had done it, and he would do it again. After those who had had kittens had found homes for them, they came to respect that decision.

Now, kittens in the future, Drift joined him, and sat down. "Can I color too?" he asked.

"Sure," Stormy said, and passed him a book and some crayons. Drift winked at him, and got up to place a single page of the book and a few crayons about halfway between Stormy and the mine entrance. Then he returned, to find that Stormy had laid out another book and more crayons for him.

He grinned companionably at the young Seeker, and began coloring. Not very well; he was too big to use the tiny tools with any degree of accuracy. So mostly he colored the backgrounds.

Roller watched them color three pages before it got to be too much for him, and then he darted out of the mine, collected two crayons and the page from the coloring book, and vanished back into the comforting darkness.

Stormy sent, ::What should we do now?:: to Drift.

::Show him that it's okay to be scared. That we'll interact with him according to his needs while he's so frightened.:: Drift got up and moved the remaining crayons closer to the mining entrance. By the time he had picked up the crayons he was sharing with Stormy, Roller had retrieved them.

About this time it occurred to Drift that he did not need to actually color, just to make the crayon seem to go back and forth over the paper. He adjusted his grip to suit this new task, and engaged the Winglord of Vos' trinemate in casual conversation.

Roller ran out of pages to color and beeped at them.

Drift made a paper airplane of another page, and sailed it to him.

Roller beeped, darted out of his hidey-hole, seized the paper, and bolted back to safety. Then he giggled.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

By the time the humans insisted on a dinner break, it was halfway through fourth joor. Mearing looked at the time and said, "How close are we on this?"

Two minutes later, she shook her head, interrupting Glasco. "Let's reconvene at nine tomorrow."

Halfway through second joor. That was fine by Optimus. He stood and, like the rest of them, stretched.

Ambling back to his trailer, he checked his e-mail, and found a complete report of Roller's adventures. Excellion's addendum to the report made him smile: "As Roller was not comfortable being left alone, he has accompanied me to my command deck, where you will find him. I regret any inconvenience this causes you."

Optimus smiled more widely, and turned toward Excellion. As Prime, he knew in his spark that what was most important was serving others. That seemed to be percolating down through the ranks, though some bots had a better grasp of it than others. Ironhide, for instance, was still of the opinion that some "others" needed to be blown to smithereens first, and served afterward. There was something to be said for that, particularly as it applied to committed Decepticons.

Excellion smiled down at him from above his door. "Optimus! I'm so glad you're here. I'm really, really, sorry that Roller was frightened. I wonder what I could have done to prevent it."

Optimus could read the young cityformer's guilt clearly. "Nothing, I imagine, Excellion. Roller had never seen a Pretender before, and although I am aware of his aversion to a solid black paint job, I do not know where it comes from. I can only assume something untoward happened while Roller was lost in the ion storm, and that a mech with such paint was involved. Roller will not discuss it with me, and Ratchet is very reluctant to, as he puts it, 'muck around in Roller's files.' If Roller is developing a spark, we do not want to disturb that process. Therefore much of what we do with Roller is simply observation. He is truly unique."

"I see," Excellion said, but remained troubled.

Optimus said, "I think your choices when Roller panicked were exactly the right ones, Excellion. You stayed with Roller but did not force him to do anything. He calmed down much sooner than he otherwise would have, because of that. I will have no hesitation about having you visit with him on schedule...although I may clear my calendar, or reschedule your visit to a time when I can. And Kenton Cooper has sent his apologies; he would like to see if we can find a way to let him apologize to Roller." Optimus paused. "The incident taught us a great deal about Roller, but even more about Stormwing. I now have a sense of who Kenton Cooper is as well, and I know you are someone I can trust, absolutely, with Roller. I could not ask for a more positive outcome to an unfortunate situation. So please, regard it as a way to obtain information we did not have about Roller before. Traumatic, yes, but that could not be anticipated nor avoided." Optimus smiled. "It was not your doing, and I am not going to blame you for it."

There was a pause before Excellion raised his optics to Optimus'. Then he simply opened his door, and said, "Thank you, Prime."

Stepping inside, Optimus wished it were always that easy. And when Roller screamed with joy and zoomed to meet him, abandoning a game of sparkling's strateka with Hauler, Optimus enfolded the little one in his own strong fields. Roller chirred contentedly, home at last; Optimus thought that if he never had a sparkling of his own, he would at least have the joy of raising Roller, and Gaia, to be everything that they could be.

End Part 6


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimers in Part 1

The top of Optimus' desk was getting crowded, what with Mearing, Li, and Simmons sharing the space with Lennox, Graham, Hastings, Torvald, Zain, and Glasco.

Prowl arrived, and apologized for being late, having been on hold with the quartermaster's office at Nellis. They had not been happy to learn that room dividers, bunk beds, lockers and other furniture were needed by quitting time on Saturday evening.

Prowl said, seating himself, "Ratchet has been called to O'Callaghan to consult in an emergency case there, and is out of communication at the moment."

Optimus nodded to his 2iC. "Then let us begin. Director Mearing, has the President had an opportunity to consider my proposal?"

"He did. And his orders are to form a new Sector—Sector 14—composed of you and your men, Mr. Zain. Mr. Hastings, he has also approved your request to continue recruitment efforts out of your facility in Portland. A committee consisting of yourself, Optimus Prime, and Colonel Lennox will sign off on all candidates, and submit the list to my office for final approval. Let's be clear: I don't see myself second-guessing you, but I do want to vet all potential Pretenders for security issues before bringing them on board. It would take only one bad apple to do a lot of damage."

Zain nodded first. In Afghanistan, there had been a real problem with extremists infiltrating friendly forces and carrying out attacks on US soldiers. He didn't want to see a disturbed person, of either the imported extremist-religious or home-grown off-balance variety, get into the outfit.

A wider pool of applicants increased the odds of someone like that slipping through. It was only common sense to use all their resources to prevent it.

Hastings said, "As soon as I have secure access to my computers, Prime, I'll get you the dossiers on our next few candidates. We're working with groups of twelve at a time, and we had planned for a full complement of sixty individuals—that being the number that we could reliably supply with energon."

Prime said, "Considering the energon requirements of mecha of your own and your men's frame class, Mr. Zain, I believe that to be reasonable." And it was—a day's ration for Optimus would be more than enough for sixty Pretenders, and that was around the amount that he estimated they had the ability to produce.

Mearing asked, "How long do you anticipate before being able to activate your Sector, Mr. Zain?"

"Our performance in our last mission taught me a lot, Director. We need to train against the bots, with Optimus' permission, and we also need to integrate our operating procedures with those of NEST before joint operations will be feasible. But I estimate that we can be ready for missions conducted strictly as a separate unit under a single command in as little as two weeks."

"Good. Optimus, will joint training exercises be feasible with the energon available to you?"

"We have instituted limited training due to the energon shortage, as you know. I believe it will be possible to have some of the more efficient bots train with S14 on at least an occasional basis, though I will have to clear that with Med-Sci before I can give you a definitive answer."

"Of course."

"May I suggest, Director, that some of the civilians might be effective in that role? I believe Icebreaker in particular would find it rewarding."

Mearing refrained from snorting; Lennox did not. Icy had made no secret about the fact that he was not happy about being bushwhacked so that some bunch of clowns, by whom he meant the Pretenders, could test a new weapon. The Pretenders were lucky that the Cybertronians tended to classify such an incident more as a prank than an attack, if no one got hurt, but Icy was going to enjoy the opportunity for a little payback all the same.

Zain asked, "How long are my men going to be held in that common area or whatever it is before you assign us quarters?"

"We don't have quarters available to assign you," Lennox said. "The new construction is coming along, but it isn't scheduled to be ready for inhabitation until next summer. You can set up camp in that area, or you can bivouac outside until we can get some trailers brought in, but that's the best we can do."

Prowl added, "I am in the process of ordering appropriate furniture and room dividers to make better use of the space, but please bear with us over the weekend."

Zain said, "That's fine. How about removing the excessive internet access restrictions and give us the same level of access available to other adults on the base?"

Mearing said, "As soon as you've been briefed on the precautions it will be necessary for you to take to go online, that can be arranged."

"There's also the case of Michael Sunderland, my computer science specialist. It would be best if he were in contact with his father. Ideally, Sunderland's father would be brought out here."

"Do any of the rest of you have dependents?"

"No, but one of my guys has a cat, and he's really worried about it. Is there a reason why Mr. Sunderland couldn't bring the cat down from Portland with him?"

Lennox said, "I don't see why not, once you build some sort of enclosure for it. Some of the civilian humans have pets, and the Cybertronians also have a few—is it right to call Steeljaw a pet, Optimus?"

"That is how I would characterize him in English, Will. —Mr. Zain, Mr. Glasco, I understand that you wish to have your unit operational as soon as possible. However, there is much that you do not yet know about your new forms. You have not yet learned how to form weapons, or how best to fight with them given the many ways that your frames differ from human bodies. I would advise you to take advantage of the opportunity to learn all that you can. If that means allowing more time to train, it will prove to be worth the investment." He smiled at Prowl. "Or at least it has for us."

Glasco said, "I hope the bad guys give us time to figure it all out, sir. But if they don't, my boys'll be ready to go in a couple of weeks."

Prime inclined his head. "Indeed, Mr. Glasco."

Zain said, "I apologize, but if we could talk a little more about the housing situation. We can camp out in that, whatever it is, that common room, as long as we have to, I guess, but if it's OK with you we'd rather build housing like the base housing that's already here and modify the plans for the needs we have now. It looks like we're going to be here for a while, so, if it's all the same to you—"

Optimus said, "I certainly would have no objection, but we do not have materials for such structures."

Lennox said, "Yeah, the budget..."

Hastings said, "Take that worry off the table. I own the biggest construction company in Chicago. I can get you whatever you need, as long as there won't be a problem with it falling off a truck here."

Optimus said, "We'll accept that generous offer, Mr. Hastings. Mr. Zain, I do have an idea. If you work with the Wreckers at the building site, they will assign you tasks which will teach you the skills you will need in order to build your own housing. That will further significantly reduce costs."

Mearing said, "That's one headache solved."

Lennox asked, "What about training? Do you need anything specific other than what's already available down at the proving ground?"

Zain accepted a file from Prowl detailing exactly that. "No, I think that will be fine. We'll need some heavier weights in the weight room. But we already have all that stuff in Portland, we just need to ship it down here."

Optimus said, "We will move your belongings as quickly as possible."

Hastings added, "That's something I can take care of too."

"Thank you," Zain said, nodding to both.

Mearing said, "Now, there's the issue of identities. We've all heard the old jokes about getting someone declared legally dead as a prank, but this is serious. Right now, you folks no longer exist as far as the IRS and the DOD are concerned. We need to get you set up with papers before we can put you on the payroll."

"With all due respect, ma'am..." Glasco began, to be ruthlessly interrupted by Mearing.

"Do I look like your mother, soldier? You call your mother 'ma'am.' You call me 'sir' or 'Director.'"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"You were saying."

"We did not expect to be around long enough to worry about needing papers, sir. We're the first guys off the boat."

Mearing nodded understanding. When the Marines stormed a beach, the first landing craft ashore took heavy casualties. These men were in that first landing craft—they were the first wave whose deaths would teach the second wave what not to do. "Thankfully that isn't the case, but it does create a logjam where it comes to getting anything done officially. We need to get it cleared as soon as possible. For your safety, I strongly advise against an overt attempt to reclaim your previous identities. Mr. Zain, you're the exception to this little problem. You've already created your new identity."

"Well, y'see, I wasn't sick. So I had to think of something else. And since I don't have a lot of relatives who'd ask questions, so it was easy to invent a nephew and leave everything to him when I dropped dead of a heart attack. When the ME agreed everything happened as described, there was no reason for anyone to have concerns about my next-of-kin turning up to take care of everything. The other guys have friends and relatives who would have asked questions, so we couldn't use that cover for them."

"Fair enough. Seymour, how fast can we come up with new identities for these people?"

"Not long for the first few. The problem we could have is that any police department could identify you as Pretenders if you get taken into custody. It would be easier to pass you off as Cybertronian immigrants than to try to keep your current status secret. In that way, your true identities could be marked eyes only and buried within the agency for at least a few decades."

"That would mean giving up our identities as Americans," Glasco objected.

Simmons paused a moment, and Glasco had the impression that he was gathering his forces. "Look," he said finally, "you did that yourselves when you _died._ We're trying to work around the situation that you created. If I give you human cover IDs, I can guarantee you that they will be blown inside a year, because not one of you has the training or experience to live in deep cover for an extended period. You are going to have a lot less trouble with John Law if you identify yourselves as Cybertronian up front than if you try to establish a human identity and your provable death is discovered later. At that point, the bell would be rung, and we don't have a way to un-ring it."

Zain and Glasco looked at each other, and neither of them looked happy with the situation. Zain admitted reluctantly, "There's no way we could prove our connection to our former lives anyway."

Glasco nodded. "The boys aren't going to like it, but that's just the way it is."

Mearing said, "You are still citizens. Cybertronians are recognized as persons, and you came online in Oregon. If I were a lawyer, I would argue in court that makes you citizens."

Prowl objected, "That was a reformat, not a reincarnation, Director. We do not want to set a precedent that we must re-establish our identities every time we need a new frame. That is far into the distance for most of us, but several of the refugees are due for a reformat now."

Mearing said, "That would only be an issue, I think, if they somehow found a way to reformat from Cybertronian frames into human bodies."

The corollary "And were mad enough to do that" was left unsaid.

The meeting continued, as first one person and then another thought of some detail which had to be addressed. No one was pleased to be there when so many things needed to be done. They were professionals, though, so they stayed, and got the the needed things done.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jolt had never figured out the human expression "landing oneself in hot water."

He'd been troubled for a couple of days by the emails he had exchanged with Shad White, the child from the Eastland Church who was obviously living in an unsafe situation. Jolt didn't know precisely who to contact about that, but was about to toss the whole thing into his Craftmaster's lap.

The last email he got had been particularly troubling. "Jolt, my friend David, who's gay like me, we were talking and I think Reverend Dowling and his right-hand guy here on the farm caught us. I don't know what to do. It happened last night, and I haven't seen David today. I thought he escaped. I don't know what they'd do to him if they caught him."

That was troubling enough. It was the next paragraph that caused Jolt's spark to flash out of sequence: "Jolt, I don't know what they'll do to David to make him say he was with me. I don't know what they'll do if they find out. One of them was already by, asking me where I was last night. I don't know what to do, Jolt."

On reading this missive yet again, Jolt decided that _he_ knew what to do. Or at least how to start finding out what to do.

But Arcee was busy on Borealis' behalf, and Chromia and Diarwen were on-base but doing translations, which he had learned not to interrupt. If he did, it was often many, many minutes later that he got a word in edgewise that didn't have to do with what a glyph's subtext and possible variations were.

Drift and Excellion were both busy.

Ratchet, he already knew, was at O'Callaghan, because he had been in medbay when the call came through. Another SEAL who fought in Chicago had been on leave in Las Vegas, and collapsed in one of the casinos. He'd had just enough presence of mind to tell the paramedics to bring him to the VA hospital, where a search of his medical records had revealed that he had been exposed to energon: he'd had open wounds throughout much of the Battle of Chicago.

Since Ratchet had been following Kenton's case before he became a Pretender, the attending at O'Callaghan had called him in. Ratchet had turned the bay over to Perceptor, shanghaied Kenton, and taken off for Nellis.

Jolt wasn't really well-enough acquainted with Perceptor to lay his, and Shad's, problem out for him. Which decision he would recognize later as his very first step into hot water.

Prime and Prowl were in a meeting with Lennox and Mearing, and Mearing's presence dissuaded Jolt from involving any of them. If Mearing was on base, Big Stuff was happening.

Jazz, whom Jolt might have felt comfortable speaking with because that bot probably knew more than any other about humans, was off doing whatever Jazz did...and Jolt was just as glad not to know what that was.

Sam was home for a day or two, so Bumblebee was occupied with him.

Flareup? No. Not the base gossip.

Barricade's name did not cross Jolt's processor as a possible confidant.

Ironhide? With the Big Twins, on his way to Nellis with the Pretenders and a fleet of non-sentient trucks, but _Pit no _to any of those three.

Brains and Wheelie? Not to be thought of.

Wheeljack? Tended to be more comfortable with his gadgets than with people.

The friends he had made among Excellion's crew? None of them were any older, or wiser, than he was himself.

Jolt was, he realized, on his own. What was best to do?

"That would be," said some part of his processor Jolt had no conscious access to, "going to get that kid out of there."

He had the next eight joor off. He ran the distances and the numbers. He'd be back a bit late for his next shift; he commed Moonracer, whom he was relieving, to let her know that.

Next he sent Ratchet an email saying where and why he was going, and that he had helped himself to sufficient ethanol to keep his lines clear. He knew it wouldn't be read until the medic's current consultation patient was in the clear, but it was the best he could do.

And then, in hot water up to his ankles, he headed north and east.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Just as Jolt was leaving the base on his self-declared mission to rescue Shad, Optimus had the commissary bring in dinner for the humans and energon rations for the bots.

Prowl's alt being a high-performance motorcycle, he preferred his energon with a little titanium to counter wear and tear. He suggested that the two Pretenders try a little, in much the same way that one would pass the salt, and they discovered that consuming energon could be, in fact, a pleasant meal—not just necessary sustenance.

It was a beginning. They were a long way from integrating the Pretenders with the Cybertronians, but it was a beginning.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jolt's journey was about three-quarters complete when the Kansas Turnpike merged with I-70.

Problems began almost immediately. His hologram couldn't pick up the ticket the Turnpike spat out for him. Eventually, he shrugged and drove on.

But the Kansas Turnpike Authority neither sleeps nor winks. It does, however, take pictures of those vehicles which it suspects of being piloted by malefactors. The hot water Jolt was already in rose as far as his knee hinges.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Troop G of the Kansas Highway Patrol is tasked with keeping the peace on the Kansas Turnpike. There is always a trooper stationed at the terminus of the turnpike at the Missouri state line, this being where all drivers are required to pay before being set free into Missouri. Skullduggery around paying on their parts, should it occur, happens here.

The trooper on duty at the time of Jolt's exit from the Turnpike had been with the Patrol for thirty-five of his fifty-seven years; this was his last active-duty shift. He had enough smarts and experience to keep one eye perpetually trained toward the goings-on.

Before he went on-shift, he'd bought his eldest grandson's birthday present and the gift bag in which to present it; he'd be off at six AM, three and a half hours away, and had missed the birthday party, but he'd be by. He was shortly to be very happy that he had declined having it gift-wrapped.

This wasn't his usual gig. Influenza was sweeping through the Troopers, and most of his guys were down with it. One of the few who wasn't should have been standing this shift, but his wife went into labor.

Sometimes, you did what you had to do. Harrington had called his grandson, offered his excuses regarding the birthday party, and said that he would be by at shift's end in the morning, about six-thirty, just in time for his son's family's breakfast.

Jolt got into line. The hot water inched up to his skidplate, though he was not aware of this fact.

Jolt didn't refuse to pay; he simply had no cash with which to do so. He could complete an electronic transaction, but the attendant wasn't about to allow him to direct access to the system, and he had no credit or debit card. She sent a signal to Trooper Harrington, and asked the driver of the Chevy to pull into the Red Zone, reserved for troublemakers.

She didn't describe it that way, of course, just gave the average-looking guy in the Chevy directions.

Harrington pulled up behind Jolt, got out of his Crown Vic, and walked up the Chevy. "Sir," he said to the driver, "may I see your license, registration, and insurance, please?"

He was well ahead of the rest of Troop G for the weekly Most Out-of-State Busts on the Pike, and was quite sure he had another here. Even though the week didn't end until he'd been retired for a day, he was confident he'd have a full year's worth of Mosts.

He would, though by a narrower margin than he expected. Jolt's holographic "driver" said, "I am a Cybertronian. I am registered as an autonomous vehicle in the State of Nevada, and the Federal government has issued me a green card. I will have to transform, assume bipedal form, to get those documents and my insurance certificate for you."

Over the thirty-five years of his service, Trooper Harrington had seen his share of "I'm an alien" excuses. None of the others had ended happily. Therefore he narrowed his eyes at Jolt and said, "All right, let's see you do that."

"Please stand a little further back, Officer."

"It's 'Trooper.' And no, I won't. You just want enough room to run in."

Jolt considered his options, found he really didn't have any beyond a time-consuming argument with the trooper, and transformed. Trooper Harrington clapped his hands over his ears and narrowed his eyes again, this time against the rush of displaced air.

"Holy crap," he said, wide-eyed, "you weren't kidding."

"No," said Jolt. "But I don't have any cash to pay, and no credit card."

"You know what? If you'll sign a book I bought for my grandson's birthday, I'll pay your toll."

Which Trooper Harrington knew could not be more than $10.75. That was, he figured, a very cheap way to make his grandson extremely happy.

So it was that he paid $2.75, and Jolt signed both his English name and his Cybertronian glyph in the front matter of a book entitled, "Aliens Among Us: the Cybertronians on Earth."

The young medic bade thanks and farewell to Trooper Harrington and escaped into Missouri, the hot water back down to his knees.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The Wreckers, as they were wont to do, were consuming their day's ration of energon together when Wheeljack raised his helm suddenly.

"What's goin' on, Jack?" Roadbuster said.

"Oh...Ratchet's upset about something," Jack said, and finished off his energon.

Roadbuster and Bulkhead exchanged glances, but not, for a change, swears. The Contest was looming, and the Wrecker coding was ever more imperative that leadership of the clan be settled.

They didn't dislike each other, but attempting to ignore one's coding if one is a Wrecker works about as well as attempting to ignore an urgent need to use the restroom if one is human. They broke the gaze quickly.

Wheeljack's membership in the Wreckers had puzzled Hot Rod and Bulkhead until they realized exactly how skilled at explosives management Jack really was. That would have been an invaluable skill before the war got serious.

Once it did, Jack had proven himself over and over again: no coward he, though it was also true that he did not have frontliner's skills or training. Before the war started, he had not had the incentive to acquire them. Once it was underway, he realized he was too far behind the starting line, so to speak, to enter that particular race.

He had made himself as useful as possible, becoming the Wrecker's EMT among other functions, and that seemed to be enough. He was a valued member of the clan.

If, as the humans put it, you messed with any Wrecker, you messed with all of them. Messing with Wheeljack would bring their collective wrath down upon the messer.

So the glances that Roadbuster and Bulkhead exchanged spoke volumes. Roadbuster's glance said, "What are we going to do about this?"

Bulkhead's replied, "Nothing yet. They're big kids. They'll figure it out."

After a thoughtful pause, just before they broke optic contact, Roadbuster's glance added, "We may have to Have a Chat with Ratchet about it, though."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ratchet raced from Mike O'Callaghan Memorial Hospital to Mission City with his lights and siren working. He'd justify it later, or pay the fine if he had to.

The noise did not interfere with a furious transmission to Optimus: ::I got an email from Jolt, and that young idiot has taken off to get a kid out of the cult compound in Missouri!::

Optimus returned a startled, if somewhat rude, glyph. ::The child is in danger?::

::It seems Jolt thought so! He didn't give me any details, but he's on his way there now. I haven't tried to contact him, since we don't know where Soundwave's bunch is.::

::Yes. Come straight to the airfield when you get here; we will be ready to leave.::

Ratchet didn't bother to transform, just horn-blasted Silverbolt's ramp clear of humans and rolled to a stop inside. Silverbolt sent, "Ramp closing: clear!" in human-audible frequencies, did that little thing, and joined his brothers in the air.

It was ten minutes to one of a Sunday morning; ten to three AM in Missouri. They'd be at Scott AFB in Mascoutah, Illinois in three hours; the airfield was roughly an hour away from the compound.

The go-team was formidable: Optimus Prime, Diarwen ni Gilthanel, Ironhide, Jazz, Prowl, and Ratchet himself. The only question left was whether they would get there in time to prevent a murder, or too late to do more than solve it.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Shad?" Zeph Neilson said, just as Shad finished with the horse he'd been plowing with that day, and was starting to clean the leather harness.

"Mr. Neilson?" Shad said, trying to ignore the pounding of his own heart.

"Where was you last night?"

Shad blinked. "Home in bed, sir."

"Alone?"

Another blink. "Yes sir."

"That's hard to prove, boy," Zeph said, and Shad was suddenly aware that so far as he knew, he and Zeph were the only ones in the barn.

"Why would I have to prove it, sir?"

Zeph eyed him, then snorted and turned away.

End Part 7


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimers in Part 1

Those members who had barn chores in the morning having returned to its bosom, the family White sat down to Sunday breakfast. Mrs. White looked, as she always did, a little flustered by having completed the tasks of meal presentation. She set down the last platter and seated herself at the foot of the table, opposite her husband.

Shad bowed his head for the meal blessing with the rest of his family, but added a small request of his very own: "Please, God, watch out for Your son David."

Small to God, perhaps, but very large indeed to Shad. He had last seen David Friday night; surely, if David had gotten to safety, he would have emailed Shad by now?

But if David hadn't gotten away...what could Shad do? These thoughts roiling inside his 13-year-old mind, Shad spooned hot cereal out for himself, and passed the bowl to his youngest sister, older by a year-and-some than he was himself.

Fruit, milk, cinnamon, and sugar with the cereal; eggs, bacon, and biscuits with jam and butter to follow: a heavy breakfast, but Sunday or no, the livestock would need more care after church. And as for the women in the family, their work was never done.

Members of the Eastland Church were all, virulent sickness of self or young child the only excuse, required to attend Sunday services. These normally began at nine thirty AM. When someone knocked on the door at 7:30 AM, the two adults looked at one another, and Shad swallowed convulsively. Mr. White looked at him, saw guilt written all over the boy's face, and put two and two together: there had been gossip that a gay boy lived in the compound. He jerked his head at his wife, eyes still on his son.

Mrs. White went to answer the door. Mr. White said calmly, "Girls, get your emergency bags, your mother's, your brother's, and my own into the car. Then come back here and eat your breakfasts as quickly as you can before you leave."

When they were alone at the table, Mr. White said to Shad, "It is you they are looking for, is it not?"

"Yes, Father."

Mr. White sighed. "I've never agreed with Dowling on several things. I am your father and I love you. Run, Shad. Once the women are safely on their way out of the compound, I will come for you."

Shad's heart settled. "Yes, Father," he said, and pushed his chair back from the table.

When Mrs. White came back into the dining room and said to Micah White, "Reverend Dowling and Mr. Neilson need to speak with Shad at the barn," he stood up calmly.

"Mary," her husband said,"the girls are gathering all of our emergency bags. I want you to get them all in the car and go to my brother James's house. Wait for us there. You'll need to fill the tank." He passed the contents of his wallet to her, keeping for himself only the pay-as-you-go Visa he'd managed to load with a few thousand dollars.

Her hand went out to take it, though she couldn't feel its weight: she had gone numb all over. "But, Micah!"

"Mary. I don't give you orders. I am _begging_ you to do this."

He finished his coffee, and left the table.

Mary White swallowed, much as Shad had done, and got her car keys. Ten minutes later, she and the girls had eaten their breakfasts and were pulling out of the compound.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Reverend Horton Dowling said to Zephariah Neilson as they left the Whites' front door, "You go 'round to the back of the house, see that the kid doesn't leave that way."

Zeph got there in time to see Shad sprinting across the fields toward the road that ran to Festus. He raced after Shad.

Shad had fear on his side. Zeph wasted breath in bellowing, "Shad White! You get back here!" and that was a double advantage to Shad: Zeph started the race short of breath, and Shad didn't have to break his stride to see if he was being pursued.

The four-foot split-rail fence that kept the livestock off the road was as nothing to Shad; he put a palm down on the top and vaulted it. Zeph was too old to do that, and was far enough behind the fleeter Shad at that point not to try it. He watched the boy race over the road to disappear into the gray-brown brush of early March, barely tinged with green as yet. It just hit freezing overnight at this time of year, and Zeph had the idea that perhaps they might track Shad through the cloud of breath he could see following the boy through the chest-high brush.

He turned and made his way back to the barn.

Zeph wasn't quite back to the barn when Micah White addressed him. "Zeph? A moment, if you please."

"Come with me, then," Zeph said shortly.

Micah White pushed the barn door shut behind them. "If you wish to talk to Shad, I shall be present."

The Reverend Horton Dowling's right-hand man scowled at him. "And why should you need to be, if we are all doing God's work?"

"I am not unhappy to contribute my work toward Reverend Dowling's community, Zeph, but of late I have had questions about his interpretation of Scripture. Therefore I am safeguarding my son."

Zeph went purple. "It is not your right to question Reverend Dowling's instructions."

"There, Zeph, we have a difference of opinion. If the Reverend Dowling makes a decision that endangers any member of my family, I have every right to question it."

Zeph scowled even more deeply. "If your son is iniquitous and you defend him, you shall be found iniquitous with him. What will happen to your wife and daughters then?"

"The car that left the compound a few minutes ago carried them beyond your reach," Mr. White said calmly, " so I imagine Mary will make a life for herself and the girls whatever happens to Shad and me. And that you should threaten my womenfolk with barbarism, Zephariah Neilson, speaks very ill of you."

Neilson's face went black with rage, and he lunged at Micah White.

By the time Zeph's fist first impacted his left shoulder, Micah White's work knife, military issue kept working sharp for twenty-six years, was out. He flipped the knife in his grip and extended the blade, sharp edge up. He drove the knife deeply into Zeph Neilson's belly and tore up through hard flesh toward Zeph's face: Zeph shied away, and screamed. But Zeph's own knife was out as well, and he drove it deep into the flesh underneath Micah's left armpit.

Two dying men faced one another: Zeph's first strike had severed Micah White's axillary artery. The chest cavity absorbed most of the blood; Micah White lost consciousness and fell at Zeph's feet just as Neilson went to his knees, and watched the blood squirt out of his own wound in time with his heartbeat.

"Help...me ..." he whispered to Whoever might hear him.

Zeph got to his hands and knees, and began to crawl. The wound continued to pump until he reached the door of the barn. At that point Zephariah Neilson did not have enough fluid in his circulatory system to maintain consciousness, and fell into the hard-packed Missouri dirt of the barn floor, bleeding still.

When his heart was not receiving enough oxygen from the reduced volume of blood it had to pump, it faltered, and stopped.

Ten minutes later Zephariah Neilson's brain was dead, and he had gone to whatever reward awaited him.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"You all have your sidearms?" Horton Dowling said to the five remaining Elders of the Eastgate Church. He was under the impression that he still had seven, knowing nothing of Micah White's rebellion or Zephariah Neilson's death.

"Horton," one of the men said, "you sure about this? I was teachin' that kid how to castrate lambs just yesterday!"

Dowling narrowed his gaze to the face of the questioner, and they all saw that he had entered what they knew as his "bent on it" phase: the whites showed all the way around his eyes. He had decided on a course of action, and could not now be deterred from it. He would remain in that state until he had neutralized or fled from the threat.

The Elders didn't put it like that to themselves, though. They glanced at one another, and most of them thought, "Heaven help us all, Horton's on a tear."

Dowling took a deep breath. "I am as sure as I can be that the Lord has appointed me to cast out the sinners among us. I am as sure as I can be that this boy, Shadrach White, ran away rather than attempt to clear himself of a serious charge of iniquity. Do you suggest some other course of action?"

The man who had the courage to ask questions proved his bravery again. "What iniquity is that, Horton?"

"We—Zeph and I—found two boys engaged in homosexual dalliance in the barn Friday night. One of them was David Grybowski. None of the other boys who might have been his, his, his, fellow sinner? None of 'em have run away rather than answer questions, except Shad White."

There was a small silence, into which the compound's rooster crowed thrice. Then the brave man spoke for the last time: "That's pretty serious all right, Horton, but I ain't so very sure I want to spend time in prison because a 13-year-old couldn't keep it in his pants. An' at thirteen, Shad's got time to change his mind. I won't be goin' with you." The man turned away.

The Reverend Horton Dowling pulled out his own sidearm, the small pistol that was silenced, and shot the dissenter just below the little notch at the base of the skull. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

"Rest of you got any reservations?"

The rest of them didn't have any worth talking about, or dying for.

"All right. You three, go south from the front gate. You two, come with me."

They went into the gray morning, searching for Shad...or a way to get clear.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Oh, that place?" said the pimpled gas station attendant. "Over the hill" —he pointed —"you take the first left."

"Thanks," Jolt said. He'd paid electronically for his gas, but had to sit at the pump until the attendant came out to see what the problem was.

"You need a jump or somethin'?" the boy asked, clanking the hose back into its holder.

"No, she's running good now I got her started," Jolt replied, and left.

The attendant scratched his head. "She" had started the moment the guy turned the key over, so far as he could tell.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Shad considered walking along the roadway, which would be considerably faster (and less wet) than forcing his way through the thickets of last year's brush beside it. On the other hand, if he were on the road, he'd be visible. Findable. And the last thing Shad wanted right now was to be found, unless it was by his father.

He compromised. He looked over the road carefully, in the direction of the compound, and saw neither cars nor men turning onto the highway from it. He came far enough out of the brush to have a clear path beside the road, in the area the state sprayed with herbicide, and raced down it in the direction of Festus at the fastest pace he could maintain.

He didn't know what he'd do when he got there. It wasn't even nine AM yet, in fact it lacked a few minutes of eight thirty, and it was Sunday. If he didn't want to sleep rough tonight, he'd have to go to the cops in Festus.

Until his father came for him. But when he did, Shad thought, for he didn't doubt for an instant that Micah White would come for him, where would he, Shad, go? He couldn't return to the compound.

An engine approached from the direction of the compound, and Shad ducked off the road.

A few more cars went by the same way; he couldn't see them over the brush, but they did not stop near him, to an accompaniment of slammed doors and shouting voices. He kept moving, though his heartbeat pounded in his ears, and his breakfast sat like a lump of lead in his belly. The morning was cold and he was too, mostly because he was wet from running through bracken.

He didn't want to get too far from the compound, since if he did, his father wouldn't know where to find him. With a little scouting, that part of Missouri not being flat as a pancake but more resembling a thoroughly-crumpled sheet of flimsy paper that's been flattened out again, Shad White found a high point some fifty feet from the road that provided a little cover to a skinny kid wearing a gray hoodie under his tan barn jacket, and settled in to watch.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Twenty minutes later, Shad felt obligated to lie flat on the ground. Dowling had his binoculars out, and was scanning the brush. He didn't trust his hoodie and barn jacket to stand up to scrutiny.

He could, however, lie on the earth, facing his adversary. His father, talking to him once about his time in Desert Storm, told him that if you looked directly at your enemy's eyes, it opened a line of communication between you and him. So he didn't look directly at Dowling, but past him at Royall Duquesne, whom he knew to be frankly stupid. Everybody knew that about Royall, down to babies four years old.

When Dowling raised the binoculars, Shad closed his eyes. He no longer experienced object impermanence, which causes a young child to close her eyes in an attempt to hide: if I can't see you, you can't see me. No, his father had also told him, one winter night when they were carding wool, that light reflected off the human eyeball in an unmistakable way. His father had been discussing being posted to night sentry duty, which meant that if Shad bet eyeballs reflected oddly only at night, he'd be gambling his life on something he knew nothing about.

Not knowing if he would open them again to find Dowling sneering down at him, Shad closed his eyes, and counted "One-one thousand, two one-thousand" all the way to five hundred.

When he opened them again, he was still alone, and there were no deep voices or heavy footsteps nearby. Cautiously, he stood up.

Royall was, as always, wearing his bright-orange hunting vest, which made it very easy to see that the hunting party had missed Shad, and were moving on in the direction of Festus.

Shad did an about-face, and went smartly back in the direction of the compound. He wanted to make it easy for his father to find him.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ten minutes later, two things happened. First, a blue and gray Chevy Volt pulled over to the side of the road, and an average-looking guy got out and said, "Shad? It's Jolt. Can you come to me?"

Glory of glories, it _had_ to be Jolt! No one else outside of David knew those two names. Shad began running through the brush to the blue car.

Royall had happened to look covetously upon the little blue-and-gray Chevy, and turned to watch it. He shouted, "Hey! There's the kid! He was behind us!"

The Reverend Horton Dowling's lips thinned as he smiled. "I give thanks unto the Lord for the deliverance of His enemies into my hands," he said, and Royall exchanged a glance with Ned Soderbaugh, whose IQ was approximately twice his own. Ned, unnervingly, looked as unsettled as Royall felt.

Dowling moved forward. "There you are, you snake within my bosom," he said to Shad, from perhaps thirty yards away.

Shad said to Jolt, "That's the man who wants to kill me!"

Jolt's hologram vanished, which startled the cultists considerably, and Jolt transformed, which startled them more. "Stay back," he said. "Shad is under my protection."

Jolt's primary weapon was an electrowhip, which came out with a sizzle and a flash. Dowling screamed, "Demon! Get thee gone!" and raised his firearm in Jolt's direction.

That was all it took for the men to open fire. Small caliber weapons were not a serious threat to larger Cybertronians unless carefully aimed by someone who knew what he was doing, but Jolt was a minibot, less heavily armored than some of his larger warframed kin. Several bullets spanged harmlessly off his armor, but sooner or later they were going to place their shots, and that would be as dangerous to Jolt as the ricochet was to Shad.

Jolt had never had to use his whips against humans, but he'd start here if he had to. He sent the lash of his smaller whip arcing toward Dowling at a respectable fraction of the speed of light. It did not hit Dowling himself, but the gun: the charge numbed Dowling's hand and he dropped the weapon. Jolt shouted, "Go back the way you came! I don't want to hurt anyone but I'm not letting you shoot this little boy!"

The cultists were not trained troops, accustomed to an enemy who survived their initial assault and threatened them in return. Dowling abruptly exited his flight of grandiosity; never before had he been so thoroughly flouted by any demon. —Although, in some corner of his addled cortex, he was aware that the demons he had faced down before had been human-seeming. Perhaps that limited their power, or...

The thought arrived like black thunder. Perhaps he had allied himself with the losing side. Perhaps the demons were winning, had been winning all along, and he, Horton Hanford Dowling, was not a servant of the Lord after all, but a servant of the Devil.

If that was true, then he had led his followers down the wrong path. There was only one way he could atone for that, purge them of their sins and take them on himself—

These thoughts raced through his mind as all three men backed up one step, then another, then a third, their eyes fixed on the face of the demon all the while. Three steps away, they judged themselves to be beyond the reach of the electrowhips, so they spun and belted for the nearest place they could cross the fence: they'd cut through the fields to get back to the compound.

As soon as the cultists turned tail, Jolt transformed, opening his passenger door to Shad, who thumped into it bonelessly and stopped trying to fight back his tears. "Jolt, they were going to kill me! My dad said to run and he'd find me, but I don't know how he's going to! What am I supposed to do?"

Jolt shut the door and wrapped the lap-and-shoulder belt gently around the sobbing child. He had to shout to make himself heard over the noise of squealing out: "I'm taking you somewhere we aren't being _shot at_, and calling 911! We get to safety first, and call the police, Shad. They'll find your dad, and tell him where you are."

Spraying gravel into the high weeds beside the dusty road, Jolt headed back to Festus at a much higher rate of speed than he would ordinarily have considered safe, or that the local cops would have considered legal.

Once they had put a couple miles between them and the cult, Jolt dropped back to the local limit, and expanded his scan range in case the cultists came after them with cars and bigger guns. But the area was clear, so he called local law enforcement. Shad reported David missing at the same time, and cried hard afterward.

If asked, the cultists would have called their pell-mell return to the compound a strategic retreat; Jolt and Shad would have called their flight to the gas station the same thing. Labels aside, all of them had managed to scare one another half-witless.

Jolt was not aware that Optimus, having landed at Scott AFB in Mascoutah, Illinois, a half-hour previously, was in contact with the Sheriff's department, and halfway to Festus. Prowl and Jazz were leading the way and sharing their sensor feed down the line to Ratchet, Ironhide, and then Optimus (with Diarwen riding in his cab) in the rear where he could see the entire convoy and direct his trailer's sensors, almost as good as the spies', to cover their rear.

The hot water the young medic didn't yet know he was in may have ebbed a bit, but now it was rising again, and fast. Both the Prime and the medic also had wide-range scanners set specifically to Jolt's own frequencies.

If the cultists returned with more firepower and larger vehicles, Jolt knew the safety of the gas station was dubious at best. He parked not-quite out of sight, and with easy access to the road.

When Optimus commed him, fifteen minutes after nine AM, he almost jumped out of his plating. ::Jolt, I have brought a response team. What is your location and situation?::

Jolt sent GPS coordinates. ::We're about five miles from the compound. I have Shad with me, uninjured, but very shaken up and extremely frightened for his father. The sheriff and several of his deputies are arriving also.:: Under his optics, the sheriff's cruiser met several pickup trucks on a highway bridge about 100 yards from the gas station.

The gas station attendant wondered what the guy in the Chevy had done. He seemed nice enough...hadn't robbed the till, shoplifted chips, or drank half a beer before payin' for it, nothin'.

Prime sent to Jolt, ::I have your location. Please inform the sheriff that our ETA is about 12 minutes.::

::Yes, Prime.:: To Shad he said, "You're safe now. We'll take care of you."

Shad began to sob.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Royall Duquesne did not remember his feet touching the ground between the meeting with the demon and his arrival at the compound gates. Once he was through the arch, he, like the others, let his momentum die and spent a few breath-cycles panting, bent double with his hands to his knees and his heart still uneasy at what he had seen. That demon had _vanquished_ the Reverend Dowling, the holiest man Royall had ever known. That shouldn't happen..._couldn't_ happen. God was mightier than anything.

But God had lost, in Royall's view. His small world turned upside down, and inside-out while it was at it.

The grandfather clock in the church office struck nine, and, still panting, Horton Dowling straightened. "Zeph!" he bellowed. "Zeph!"

Silence followed the last peal of clock.

Paul Soderberg had other fish to fry. He asked, "Reverend, what are we going to do? We shot at that Transformer! It won't be long until the law is here!"

Dowling straightened to his full height, and a look neither of them had ever seen before came over him. The other three Elders arrived at that point, and none of the five wanted to look at Dowling's eyes; whatever was behind them now had force enough to kill, and no need to refrain from it.

Dowling said, "I have seen that we are fallen. The demons are stronger than I thought possible, and will overwhelm this world. That fact is beyond addressing. We have one choice left to us: to leave this world to its sins and its woes. We will not allow our beloved children to fall into the clutches of the unrighteous, nor of those metal demons. We have prepared for this day."

They all knew what he meant by that. They had all remained in the cult because, surely, it wouldn't ever come, that Day of Reckoning.

But it had.

Dowling said flatly, "We need to work quickly. The forces of our ancient enemy will be here soon. Paul, bring the supplies to the summer kitchen. Royall, help me get the cups ready. Saul, Norton, you will be in charge of making the mixture. Ensure that it is palatable before you add the insecticide. Use the cottonfield mix."

Saul wanted to know how much. The figure that Dowling gave him would work out to once and a half the lethal dose per adult.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

At the gas station, Jefferson County Sheriff's Deputy Reich put a hand on Shad's knee. "Easy, son," he said, but the boy sobbed even harder.

The deputy was in a pickle. His own son was about Shad's age, and the deputy himself was not an unkind man. But he needed information, and Shad was sobbing so hard he couldn't be understood.

"Okay," he said gently, "you bear with me here, Shad. You saw David last about eleven on Friday night, is that right?"

"Yes," Shad sobbed. "My dad ..."

"We'll find him and get him to you as fast as we can, Shad, I promise you that with my whole heart. To help us, can you tell me how many people are in the compound? You don't have to be exact. How many men, would you guess?"

"Forty-seven full-grown men. Older boys, twelve, thirteen, who might be able to shoot straight, there's about forty of 'em."

"Okay, so we gotta worry about a hundred active arms-bearers, tops. Now how many women and children? Can you give me an estimate there?"

Shad had to sob for a bit, remembering his sisters, until he could say, "Sixty-four women. I know that because I heard one of the leaders of the women's circle talkin' about findin' sixty-four chairs for a meeting."

Reich would later find that Shad, like all the cultists, thought of anyone fourteen or over as an adult, and had thereby overestimated the number of active combatants by about half.

"Good, Shad. Good you remembered that. An' gobs of kids, I bet," the deputy said, with a smile at Shad.

Shad returned it, though it felt strange on his face. "Seventy-some odd six to fourteen. Babies an' toddlers, I wouldn't know about that."

"I don't think we need to worry about them any. They ain't a threat. Washcombe," the deputy said to another who had just arrived, "you go into that convenient store and get our young friend here a soda an' some potato chips, okay? An' a candy bar. Keep the receipt, an' I'll see you get reimbursed for it."

"Yessir," said Washcombe, and ambled off to make the wish fact. Went above and beyond, in fact, and returned with a king-sized candy bar, a bag of cheese puffs, biscuits and gravy in a coated-cardboard tray, and two quarts of carbonated sugar water. He remembered being a teenage boy.

And in this hiatus, Jolt received a comm from Ratchet. ::_So_ much trouble,:: was all it said. Jolt's oral cavity went dry.

The farm boy had never eaten junk food before. Nothing like the flavors, which went zip zang pow in Shad's unsuspecting mouth, and certainly nothing like the caffeine in a 64-ounce Pepsi, was available to him on the farm; his family thought that he could wait until he was fourteen to make the acquaintance of coffee. He perked up (the caffeine) and calmed down (the carbohydrates). He hadn't eaten much breakfast at the farm, and the biscuits and gravy filled in the crevices nicely.

Deputy Reich handed Shad the notebook, turned to a fresh page, and gave him a pencil. "Think you could draw us a plan of the compound?" he said. "None of us ever been in there. You folks kept yourselves to yourselves."

Jolt said, "I can throw a projection of the satellite view onto that page for you, Shad."

"That would be mightily helpful if you would, sir," said the deputy.

He was still wrapping his brain around the concept of sentient machines. Dispatch had sent word that there was a bunch of 'em on the way to help out with what promised to be an armed standoff at the compound. He deputy had no idea how that was gonna work out, but he was mightily interested to see it, yes he was; and help, in that circumstance, was never unwelcome should it be offered by those who knew what they were doing. After seeing videos of the Battle of Chicago, Reich was inclined to advance the machines the benefit of the doubt over that issue.

And in the meantime, any quantity as unknown as a sentient automobile would get addressed as "sir." Or "ma'am," if they had ma'ams; Deputy Reich didn't know that, either.

Jolt switched his dome light on. "Put the page where my light falls, Shad," he said.

As the deputy had hoped it might, the task of tracing the projection steadied Shad, who had to make several erasures and corrections. When the deputy took the notebook back, he said to the boy, "Do you have any idea how far it is between buildings?"

Jolt said, "I can project the distances for you if you wish," just as the go team reached the gas station.

Ratchet's first comm to him apprised Jolt of the depth and temperature of the metaphorical hot water now threatening to close over his helm, but did not disrupt his projection. Jolt, not an intransigent mech even at his worst, couldn't find it within himself to care one whit about anyone's displeasure. If things had gone wrong, he would have been recovering a body, not rescuing a live kid.

He didn't exactly _send_ this to Ratchet, but he didn't hide it, either, and the medic's grumbles died to silence.

The others transformed as they reached the parking lot, the Sheriff himself following them in.

Deputy Reich said to the food-bringer, "Newcombe? Run interference with the Sheriff for me, okay?" Because he knew that this next part was going to be very, very hard for Shad.

He took the notebook back. "Thank you, Shad. Look, you say your friend David Brykowski—"

"Grybowski," Shad said.

"Could you spell that for me, son?"

Shad did, and Deputy Reich gave an internal sigh for what had to come next as he wrote David's name down.

Then he said, very gently, "Shad, this may be hard, but I need you to tell me everything you can remember about the last time you saw David."

He waited out the boy's tears, and wrote down everything he could understand. Then he braced himself to ask Shad to repeat it all, but at that point, Newcombe approached, nodded to Shad, and said, "We're ready to roll."

Deputy Reich put his hand very gently on Shad's shoulder. "You stay with your friend here, okay?" he said. To Jolt he added, "I expect you'll be coming with us." Not quite an order.

"Yes, deputy," Jolt said.

Shad climbed into Jolt, snicked the seatbelt shut, folded his arms, leaned forward to put them on his knees, put his head down on them, and stopped trying to keep the tears in.

End Part 8


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer in Part 1

As Shad began the tale of David's disappearance, Optimus rolled to a stop, let Diarwen out, and transformed. "Sheriff Mitchell?" he said to the group of uniformed men.

"That would be me," said a stocky gray-haired man.

"How may we best be of assistance, sir?"

"From what I understand, we got no time for fancy planning. Can you download a satellite image of the compound?"

"We have done so already."

"Well, if you look at that, you'll see the church building on top of a bluff. They're all going to be in there for Sunday morning services in just a few minutes. If this Reverend Dowling is as dangerous as you say, that's probably the time he's going to blow, with all of his people right there in front of him. We got a boy who's been missing since late Friday night, and another they opened fire on, along with your guy."

Ironhide asked, "You say they're all going to be in that one little building?"

"If they run true to form, yes, they will be."

The weapons specialist said, "Gonna have kids and adults all mixed up together, so we've gotta shut down whatever they have planned without hurting anyone. I might be able to do that. I have some rounds that fire a net soaked in glue that sets within a few seconds of the round going off. One or two ought to cover the biggest part of the building. The net will drop down on top of them and glue them to the pews. The weight of the net will push most of them down into those pews, if they're standing. Once the glue sets, they're not going anywhere until we spray them with the neutralizer."

The sheriff said, "It's worth a try. If I do have to rush the building, it'll at least keep the hostages out of our line of fire."

Ironhide nodded. "Jazz, think you can get me optics on the inside of the building without causin' a panic?"

The smaller bot grinned. "Not a problem, mah mech."

The sheriff nodded. "The rest of us will surround the building, and form our perimeter along that dirt road that circles through the buildings around the church. Mind your cover, nobody give 'em a free shot."

His deputies nodded very seriously. Some of them were fresh from Afghanistan, and this was urban warfare. You could never know what was on the other side of a door, and they were going to have to find out.

Optimus nodded. "We will follow your lead, Sheriff."

"OK, let's move."

Optimus said, ::Jolt, keep Shad with you. When we get there, guard the gate in case some of them slip by us. If the situation at the church degenerates into violence, I do not think Shad needs to see it.:: _Nor do you, for that matter_.

::Yes, Prime.::

The Cybertronians transformed and drove to the gates of the compound, followed by the Sheriff's men. Once there, Optimus stopped, and Diarwen jumped to his passenger-side step. There, she was protected by his armor against a wild shot from the church, but still able to leap clear at a moment's notice if he needed to transform.

Jolt pulled to a stop in front of a vegetable stand that the compound kept near the front gate. The flimsy plywood construction wouldn't stop a bullet, but it would keep them out of sight of the church. They watched the Autobots and the sheriff's cruisers head up the dirt road into the compound.

Shad asked, "Why are we stopping? I want to find my dad!"

"We're needed to guard this gate. Optimus is concerned that some of them may try to escape."

"But my dad—!"

"When he sees all of this happening, he'll take cover until it's over, won't he?"

Shad nodded. That was true. Still, he needed his father, and he huddled in Jolt's passenger seat, small and lost and frightened, and very, very alone.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

At 9:28, just as Optimus' team and the Sheriff's Department were rounding the last curve in the long access road leading to the compound's small village, the Reverend Horton Dowling looked out across his small church.

The church had been built in the early 1990s, when money was still scarce. It met the minimal codes of the time for "occasional short-term occupation, not to exceed 24 hours in any given month" —that is, it had running cold water and the absolute minimum of insulation. It was cold in the winter and hot in the summer. The pews, which were of later construction than the rest of the church, allowed minimal passage between them, and even less passage between the pews and the walls. Cultists who had grown heavy with age usually sat in the back, nearest the aisles, because they could not get through the narrow aisles to the forward pews. Marian Neilson, who had sat in the same seat for almost thirty years now, had to wedge herself past the last row to slip into her pew from the center aisle.

The small church was empty now, but soon to be filled with those under Horton Dowling's power.

He did not realize that he had never thought that before. His glance dropped to the small shelf under the pulpit: a gun, ammunition, the glass of water he sometimes needed to stop himself from choking on his own words, the hymnal. The only difference today was the long table to one side of the altar, shrouded now to deflect the eyes of the curious because it was laden with his lethal mixture of insecticide and flavored water.

At the first half-hour chime of the grandfather clock, Dowling nodded to Royall and Ned, who opened the doors of the church.

Leah Neilson, Martin's daughter, was last in: she had to manage both Zeph's triplets and get Shankie to sit-and-stay.

With Leah and the triplets inside, Royall and Ned locked the doors. Jazz by this time had made the nest of farm machinery nearest the church; it was his last cover before approaching the church itself. When he heard the lock snick, he moved in his fastest quiet mode to the rear of the church.

The congregation glanced at one another; that the doors were locked was unusual. They couldn't be allowed time for speculation, though, so Dowling went to the pulpit and raised his hands for attention.

It was at this point that Jazz slid an optic cable through the small window left cracked for ventilation. He sent the feed to Ironhide.

Dowling cried, "Brothers and sisters! I bring you news of great tribulation. We have been betrayed by serpents in our midst. The White family has deserted us, and called in the minions of Satan to carry us off into captivity. We must flee to the safety of Heaven, or be enslaved by the heathen, and our children raised in sin and wickedness."

In the back row Leah Neilson saw Horton Dowling only through the apparition of a blond lady with a bright light shining behind her, who whispered, "Don't be afraid, my child. Put your cousins out the window, follow them, and run toward help as fast as you can."

Then the blond lady faded away, until all the girl could see was the white wings she knew as her own protection spreading open between her and Horton Dowling.

The cousins were next to her: it was her job to keep them quiet in church. Putting her finger to her lips, she went to the window and opened it, then lifted little Jordan and lowered him through it to the grass below. Joshua followed; both boys were silently safe.

She lifted Elizabeth. The tiny girl dropped her teddy, and cried out for it.

Marian turned to face the rearmost pew, and saw the escape attempt. Her mouth narrowed between its pouchy cheeks, and she began to lever her bulk free of the pew.

Leah grabbed Elizabeth, sat on the window sill, and kicked Marian in the face with all her strength. The kick propelled her backward through the window and she landed hard in the gravel, Elizabeth cradled on her chest. She scrambled out from under her wailing cousin and whistled. Shankie, sitting obediently at the church door, came wagging his whole body.

Sheep dogs are not limited to herding sheep, and Leah knew the commands her family used. She whistled, and Shankie obediently formed the toddlers up into a mob. All three were by this time wailing: Elizabeth because she had been frightened by the fall, the other two because Elizabeth was.

Leah gave the whistle which translated to, "Drive them to follow me!" and led the way as fast as the toddlers could manage through the winter-rough vegetable patch. The little ones fell repeatedly, getting muddier and muddier. Shankie did not nip them, as they were not sheep, but he did lick their little faces until they got up again.

Leah was eleven, and they were chunky babies. She might have been able to carry one, two at no faster than a very slow walk; three was out of the question. If they were pursued they would be caught, and they needed cover. She led the babies to the irrigation ditch, which in the summer carried water to the crops.

Once they were visible to the police party, Shad's deputy took it upon himself to collect the children, mud and all, into his car. He was inclined to believe Leah when she insisted that her guardian angel had told her to take her cousins and run. Shankie, finding himself excluded, yelped to be let in until the deputy gave up and opened the door.

Back inside the church, Ironhide used Jazz' video feed to precisely place his shots. The canisters flew through the windows with a shatter of glass, and went off near the ceiling. The nets deployed as if a giant spider had spun them intact, then frisbeed them down onto the Eastlanders, pushing them down in their seats or even in some cases down between the pews, gluing them to pews or floor like flies to a web.

Hide's next shot, a tiny explosive round, landed dead center on the table containing the pitchers, blowing them to smithereens.

Only Dowling, at the pulpit, eluded the nets; they did not reach far enough to ensnare him. Marian Neilson, having sat back down in her pew, was stuck fast where she was.

Dowling wanted death this morning, and would not be baulked of it. He raised the gun from under the pulpit.

Jazz and Ironhide both shouted a warning, but it was Optimus who rammed the back of the church, breaking through the clapboard siding, and transformed, reaching inside to grab and disarm the mad preacher.

Dowling backstepped and screamed, "No, demon, you will never possess me!" He raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Optimus moved aside and pulled away a shattered two-by-four to allow Diarwen to get into the church. She knelt by Dowling, who was lying in the aisle just in front of the altar, calming herself enough to ascertain whether she should establish a healing link. If his wound were severe enough, trying to save his life would be doing him no favors.

Both cursory examination and her sense of energetics told Diarwen his wound was not survivable; too much damage had been done to the parts of his brain necessary to sustain life. She began to open the bridge to the land of rest.

A dark, massive, clawed hand came down between her and Dowling and slapped her with stunning force into the wooden altar. Shaking her head, Diarwen began to rise to her hands and knees as acrid black smoke filled the room and flames began to lick at the ends of the nearest pews. The pews were old dry wood, polished weekly with a flammable oil, and they gave themselves over to fire in an unnaturally swift surrender. The parishioners, held fast, began to scream and struggle.

Diarwen staggered to her feet and reached out for the flames, willing them away from the entangled cultists. The scarring she had incurred at the Battle of Chicago denied her any feedback from her effort, and she had only limited success. It was like trying to pick up coins with a hand to which the circulation had been cut off.

"Optimus!" she shouted, eyes only for the terrified children caught helpless in Ironhide's net, "Get these people out _now!_ The power behind this fire is far greater than mine, but by Brigit I will lose no more innocents to the flames!"

Power crackled around her, through her, Elemental Fire that she could barely control dancing over her mail and the metal vambraces she wore, as she wrested precious seconds for rescue by sucking to it the flames greedily licking at the church—flames which were of some source other than her own Element.

Optimus widened the entrance with a single blow of his servo, sending, ::Jazz! Help us get the cultists out!::

Jazz raced around the corner, climbed into the building. The spec ops mech used an energon dagger to carve through the net and the floorboards alike, and began handing out sections of pews and flooring, with terrified cultists attached, to Ironhide and Optimus.

Diarwen began to hack and cough as Jazz got the last ones out, and lost the small amount of control she had over the flames. The saboteur scooped her up and curled around her to protect her as he crashed through the nearest wall.

He handed the Prime Consort off to Optimus while Prowl sprayed him down with one of the water hoses that the deputies had been stringing from the nearest barn. Several stubborn flames clung to gaps in his ankle plating even under the deluge until Ratchet sprayed him with foam, which finally put them all out.

Nothing could save the shattered church. Optimus got a horrifying glimpse of flames shooting out of Dowling's eyes and mouth, as well as through his shattered skull, before the whole structure was swallowed up in those unnatural flames. Shouting a Cybertronian oath, he transformed around Diarwen to protect her from a blast of heat and foul gas as the roof fell in.

It was ten minutes before the volunteer fire department could get there to soak down the ashes.

Ironhide freed the children from the glue trap, leaving the adults for last, glaring and growling menacingly at any who dared look truculently upon him. When they saw the sheriff rip open a bag of disposable handcuffs, they subsided, realizing that there was absolutely no chance that they were going anywhere other than the county lockup: the lucky ones might hit the emergency room first for smoke inhalation.

The sheriff quickly homed in on the most senior surviving cultists. The adults were stubbornly silent about the church's missing members, but Leah piped up, "The Whites are all gone! So is Uncle Zeph and the big Grybowski boy, David!"

Marian said, "Shut up, you little whore!"

Leah turned her head away from her aunt with sufficient poise to ignite Marian's considerable temper. It was plain that she found her aunt without power any longer: someone she could safely dismiss.

That dismissal turned Marian red as a beet. She shut up, and amused herself by beginning a fine, a very fine, plan for revenge against the traitorous niece who had stolen her children.

The deputies not needed to guard the cultists split up to canvass the compound buildings door to door for the missing cultists, while Optimus sent the bots out to search the rest of the property.

The deputies quickly found Zeph Nielson and Micah White in the barn. At that point, the search for Abigail White and the girls went into high gear, and Shad's deputy, with a heavy heart, went to give the Sheriff the news.

Prowl's search area included some pasture behind the swine barn and a field where a dilapidated old shed slumped among a stand of young sumac trees.

His olfactory sensors detected stale human blood as well as bleach as soon as he neared the building. From its state of decomposition, he determined that the blood had been spilt on Friday night—the night of David Grybowski's disappearance.

His optics dimmed in dismay. He made a deep scan of the rickety structure and quickly found a three-by-six rectangle of disturbed earth hidden under a layer of sand and gravel. More sand covered another puddle of blood, and his analysis of the decomposition gases rising from both located them as the source of the odor which he had detected. There was definitely a body under the disturbed earth.

Sorrowfully, he informed Optimus of his discovery, and waited there until a couple of deputies arrived to secure the scene. He pointed out the locations of the puddle of blood and the shallow grave.

One of the deputies indicated the bar hanging from the ceiling above the blood stain. "Looks like somebody was hung up from that. Reckon it's the Grybowski kid?"

Prowl said, "My estimation of the time of death would fit that scenario, and the body chemistry appears to be consistent with that of an adolescent male."

The deputy replied, "Fuck. He was what, fifteen? Sixteen? Fuck. I _hate _when it's a kid."

His partner said, "It could've been a lot more kids."

"Yeah. Only fucking silver lining in the whole goddamned cloud."

Prowl, who agreed wholesparked with the profanity, said, "If I am no longer needed here, I should continue my search. Locating Mrs. White and her daughters is now even more urgent."

One of the deputies pulled out his notebook. "Let me just get your name. And you smelled this, yeah?"

"My designation is Prowl, and yes, I did."

The deputy shut his notebook. "Thanks. Sure, go on ahead. We got this. Can't do nothin' here till CSI gets out here from St. Louis, anyhow."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus sighed, and said, "Thank you, Prowl."

His 2iC sent wordless compassion for the task ahead of Optimus, and left.

Optimus looked at his opposite number, who had done this far too many times in his own career. "Sheriff, we must inform young Shad of his father's death, and now it appears likely that David is dead as well. May I offer you a ride?"

"Thank you, sir."

The youngling and the teenager were playing hearts with a Cybertronian deck about four times the size of human cards, taken from Jolt's subspace (and the symbols were not hearts, diamonds, clubs, and spades, either). They scrambled to their feet as Optimus approached.

Shad demanded, "Have you found my folks? Are they OK?"

Sheriff Mitchell joined the boy, and laid a hand on his shoulder. It was exactly the sixth time he'd heard a Cybertronian transform, but this time as Optimus assumed his root mode fifteen feet behind him, Denver Mitchell didn't even blink.

"Son, are you Shad White? Is Micah White your dad?"

"Yes, sir. Have you found him?"

"Yes, we did. Shad, your father is dead. I'm so sorry for your loss."

The boy went white around the mouth and eyes, and the cards fell from his numbed hands. "No... I knew I should have stayed here! I knew I should have looked for him!"

"Shad, you couldn't have done anything. It was quick, and he took the other guy with him. I have a son of my own, and I can tell you, the only thing he cared about—the _only_ thing—was making sure you and your mom and your sisters were OK, no matter what. His death wasn't your fault, and he wouldn't want you thinking it was."

"Who was it? What bastard killed my dad?"

"Some big bearded guy was found dead with him."

Shad said, "Zeph. It was him and Dowling who chased me and David on Friday night. He killed David, too, didn't he? Him and Dowling?"

Mitchell knew better than try to sugar coat that kind of news. False hope only made things infinitely worse in the long run. "Another body has been found. We haven't made a positive identification yet, but it looks like it could be David."

Tears welled up in Shad's eyes. "I hoped he got out, but after this long without emailing me, I kind of knew he didn't. He must of not told them who I was, and they killed him for it."

"Yes." Mitchell let the simple affirmation work its magic; strange how a bereaved human being could accept anything but being lied to, or strung along. When the boy looked at him again, tears running down his face, he said, "Shad, after all this, I hate to put any more on you, but we need to find your mom and your sisters. They aren't on the farm. Do you know where they might have gone?"

Shad wiped his eyes. "Dad has—had—a younger brother in St. Louis who left the church before I was born. If our car's gone, that's probably where they went."

"What's his name? Do you know the address?"

"His name is James White, and he lives on Prairie Drive. I don't know what the number is."

"We'll find them, son. What kind of car is your mother driving?"

"A red Ford Focus," Shad replied.

"Your dad's car?"

"Yes sir."

"We're going to get you back with your mom as soon as we can, Shad."

"Thanks," Shad said. On some level he had already outgrown needing his mother.

"Jolt, is it?"

"Yes, Sheriff?"

"Will Shad be OK here with you? We need to get back up there."

"Yes, I'll stay with him."

Shad asked, "Sheriff, my dad—his body—what do I have to do to get him buried?"

"You don't have to do anything, Shad. It'll be a little while before the coroner gets done with him. We'll notify the family just as soon as that work is complete. What they do next, that's your mom's decision, and your uncle's."

After Optimus and the sheriff went back up to the churchyard, Shad slid down the wall of the vegetable stand to sit with his head in his hands. Jolt could do nothing but keep vigil with him, sliding an arm around the grieving teenager. There were no words in English or Cybertronian to offer solace for such a devastating combination of losses.

They waited; it was all they could do. Jolt let Shad talk about whatever he needed to, offering comments only when it seemed Shad needed to listen rather than speak.

Some time and some tears later, Shad said, "You know, my dad and David aren't the first people those bastards killed."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't think they actually murdered anyone else before, not with their own two hands. But Marian—the triplet's mother, I told you about her—she'd get on the internet with gay teenagers, use a lot of different identities to bully them into committing suicide. I think she killed seven people that way. I found her sock puppets on her computer. And files marked 'SUCCESS'. I think those are the ones who...did it."

"Oh, Primus. Shad, why didn't you tell me before?"

"I didn't know if anyone would believe me. And if they found out I told—"

Jolt nodded. "I understand. I think in your place I would have kept it to myself as well until I was safely away from there."

"I'll have to testify in court, won't I? And Marian, she'll get me for it."

"She'll be in prison, Shad. They'll be able to prove it, and she won't be getting anyone for anything."

Shad snorted. "You don't know Marian."

"I'll tell Jazz. He'll know what to do." He commed Jazz.

Shad nodded. He was too tired to care, and it wasn't long before he drifted, so far as Jolt could tell, into a light, troubled sleep.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz got off the comm with Jolt, and looked around for the Sheriff, waiting until he could catch the man by himself. "Sheriff Mitchell? Mah name's Jazz. Look, if there's somethin' interesting on some of the computers in the houses here, is there any way you could find out about it without having to involve th' witness who led you to them?"

The man scowled studiously, and finally said, "I'm going to be impounding all the computers, and we're already getting a warrant to search them to find out who else was an accessory to the murders of White and Grybowski. If there's other evidence of wrongdoing on them, it will likely be found in the course of carrying out those searches."

"Jolt—he's th' one of us up there with the White boy—passed on to me what young Shad said about some other murders that might have been committed from the compound."

"Do tell," the Sheriff said, and so Jazz did. When he finished, the sheriff turned to his lead deputy and shouted, "Coy! Where are we on that search warrant for the computers?"

"Judge Jones is at his daughter's house for Sunday dinner. I sent Seth over there to get him to sign the warrant."

The sheriff nodded. "You tell him to be on the horn immediately he gets that signature."

End Part 9


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimers in Part 1

Jolt followed directions from the Internet to James White's home on Prairie Drive.

It was a quiet neighborhood of small, working-class homes on tiny lots, more back yard than front yard; when he could see the back yards, they were mostly divided between play areas and gardens.

The lawns were neat, and here and there people were tending beds of early daffodils, but the paint was peeling and many homes were in need of a new roof. Cars were universally older models. More than a few of the houses had "For Sale" signs in the yards, and several others stood boarded-up and abandoned, victims of foreclosure.

Once this had been a neighborhood of "starter homes." Now, the families who lived here had little prospect of moving on to a better neighborhood; they'd be lucky to keep what they had.

The whole neighborhood gave silent testimony to the slow but inexorable decline into poverty of the middle class, as what had once been their wealth seeped upward to the fortunate few.

Jolt shuddered. This was what Ratchet and Ironhide had described as the end of Cybertron's Golden Age, when cheap energon had run out and the Towers mecha had taken advantage in order to enrich themselves at everyone else's expense. Was he watching the same thing happen all over again here, with the end of cheap oil?

Shad stirred enough from his misery to ask, "What's the matter?"

"I hit a pothole," Jolt lied.

"Oh, sorry."

"It's OK."

"Wait, that's our car up there, across from the black SUV," Shad said, pointing.

Jolt rolled to a stop. "Will you be OK?"

"Sure, but I need to go find out about my mom and my sisters."

"After you see them, could you bring your uncle out to speak to me? I can't just leave you here until I'm sure he's home and everything's all right."

"OK, Jolt. Thanks! Thanks for everything."

Jolt parked in the sun and settled down to recharge as Shad ran up the walk to knock on the door.

James White had escaped the cult by joining the Army at the beginning of the first Gulf War. So had Micah, but after the war, Micah had second thoughts, and went home. The brothers had more in common in their experiences as veterans than they did in their history, as religion pulled them in different directions. Without the cult's knowledge, they had stayed in touch over the years, through marriages and the births of children, and even James' divorce.

Shad wondered briefly what it would have been like if his father had stayed away from the cult, if he had grown up on this quiet little street like the cousins he barely knew.

The deputies had already been here to break the news and to question Shad's mother. As he came up to the door, he could hear her and his sisters wailing. He raised his fist to knock, and froze as someone screamed, "Why?"

He nearly bolted, but his uncle's dog forced the issue by running to the door and barking. Shad made himself knock.

His cousin, a thin red-haired boy a little younger than he was, opened the door. "Dad! There's a boy here!"

"Who is it?"

"I don't know!"

James came to the door, and saw his brother's features stamped on Shad's face. "Shad. It's good to see you, kid. Come on in. Chris, this is your cousin Shad."

"He's the one who got Uncle Micah killed?"

"What? Chris, you—Jesus!"

"What, that's what Judith and that other girl said! 'Cause he's gay!"

James landed a hard whack on the seat of Chris' jeans _before_ he saw Shad turn white. "Boy, I'm ashamed of you. Go to your room and get that math homework done. I'm going to be up there to check it in a little bit and you'd better have a good start on it when I get there. And we're going to have a little discussion, too."

Chris took the stairs two at a time and slammed his bedroom door.

"I'm sorry," Shad said.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for." James White gathered the very young man in front of him into a hug, but Shad's spine stayed stiff. James patted his shoulder gently and let him go.

His eyes, haunted, on his uncle's, Shad said, "He's right, you know. My father died to protect me from Zeph. It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been..."

James took Shad by the shoulders, and looked deeply into his eyes. "Shad. Listen to me. My brother loved you. I know that in my heart and you should too. Whenever I saw him he had a dozen stories about you and your sisters. He didn't care if you were gay, straight, or purple. He died, that's true, but not everybody gets to die fighting for something that's worth everything to them. Never forget that, do you understand me? What happened to Micah was Zeph Neilson's fault, not yours, and Micah already took care of that. You mourn him and you be proud of him, but don't you ever, ever regret what he did for you, because I can tell you straight out, he didn't. Instead, you make the most of the gift that Micah gave you and grow up to be just like him."

Shad's eyes filled, and once more James pulled him close. This time there was no resistance.

They had met each other perhaps six or eight times in all of Shad's life, but now he and his uncle held each other and cried, united in love and loss.

After a time, James and Shad left the small foyer and entered the combined living room/dining room/kitchen that made up the downstairs of the little house.

CNN was on the TV with the sound off. Shad felt like he was going to fly off the world as he watched from the vantage point of a news helicopter while a slow-moving coroner's van left the compound. He caught a glimpse of Optimus Prime's distinctive paint job, then the face of a newscaster filled the screen. He turned away from the TV.

Who had been in the van? His father? David? One of the cultists? The crawl across the screen had said five dead. Zeph and Reverend Dowling made four; who else had died? There was no way he could find out right now.

His mother looked up at him through tear-filled eyes empty of everything but pain, and keened again, a harsh broken sound that seared him to the soul.

His sisters looked up at him and their eyes filled with pure hate. He took a half-step back, and his youngest sister, Atarah, launched herself at him, knocking him down, and locked her hands around his throat. "You piece of filth, it should have been you, not Father!"

Rooted by the sudden violence, it took James a second to react and pull the hysterical girl off Shad. She punched him a few times trying to get away and continue her assault on Shad, but James had a good grip and simply took the blows. Her rage finally spent, Tara collapsed in his arms, crying her heart out.

Shad took a few steps backwards, nearly tripped over the dog, and fled back to Jolt.

There was no way he could stay there.

"What happened?" Jolt asked, opening his door. The boy was white about the lips and eyes, and his vital signs all said "Shock."

"My mom and my sisters—it's awful. They're just...oh God. They're torn apart. And my youngest sister blames me for what happened to Dad. She tried to choke me. My uncle had to pull her off of me."

"Oh, Shad."

The boy gave up and collapsed into sobs. After a time, things must have settled in the house, for James appeared, about three feet beyond the end of his rope.

Jolt rolled his window down so Shad wouldn't have to get out. It was a poor excuse for safe harbor, but it was the best he could do.

James knelt, and rested folded forearms on Jolt's passenger door. "I'm sorry about that, Shad. I didn't see it coming."

"It's not your fault. No one could have known she'd go off like that."

"Grief affects everyone in different ways," James said to his dead brother's son. "Give her time. She's your sister. She's trying to make sense of what happened, and you were in range. It could have been me, it could have been anyone. Just give her time."

Shad nodded. "I can't stay here. Not with everyone so...broken...and I'd just rub it in their faces."

"I know. And it's better for you not to have to subject yourself to that day in day out. You need to heal too. I'm not sure where I'd put you anyway. Your mom gets the extra bedroom and I'm going to have to get a couple of sofa beds in the living room for your sisters. None of them ever want to go back to the compound."

Shad shook his head. "Me either."

James said, looking his nephew in the eyes. "I'm not sure what to do, though. I don't want to put you in a foster home."

The two humans fell silent, James' hand on Shad's shoulder all the comfort he had to offer. Both of them were thinking furiously, James about who he might know, and trust, well enough to call in a gigantic favor, Shad about nothing much beyond, "What am I going to do now?"

Jolt commed Ratchet, who brought Optimus into the conversation, who called Director Mearing. The conference call went on unbeknownst to Shad and James, but when it ended, Jolt spoke up. "Excuse me, Mr. White."

James jumped; there was no one else around.

"I am Jolt, a Cybertronian; the car Shad is sitting in is my alternate form. Shad, if you like, you could come with us. I have room in my quarters, and my craftmaster will take legal responsibility for you until you come of age. Director Mearing said she could claim that you were under threat from the cult in part because of your association with me. We could say that Zeph accused you of being in league with us, and there would be no one to say it didn't happen that way. We would have to stay in St. Louis until your uncle James here gets legal custody of you, which no one will fight because you're family, Mr. White, and then you, Mr. White, could give Shad permission to come to Mission City."

James, who had never believed that the Transformers really existed even after the Battle of Chicago, accepted this change in his reality with a blink. A practical man, he said only, "You're just a kid yourself, aren't you?"

"I am young, but considered an adult."

"James White. How long have you been an adult, Jolt? Since this morning?"

"Longer than that. But not long," Jolt admitted.

"Okay. And who's your craftmaster, and what is that?"

"I am a senior apprentice medic—that is, in the last phase of my training before I become a journeyman, and can see patients unsupervised. Ratchet is my craftmaster, who has instructed me in the practice of healing. He's also the nearest thing I have to a father."

"He's that big green ambulance, right? I think I saw him on the news from Chicago."

"That's right."

"I'll need to talk to him before I decide to let Shad go with you. If I don't feel like he's responsible, I'll have to figure something out. Move to a bigger place, or find someone I know real well, who can take him in."

Jolt commed Ratchet, then replied, "He is on his way. It will take him about half an hour to get here."

"OK. I'm going to go back inside and have a little chat with my son. Holler at me when he gets here, and we'll figure this out."

"Yes, sir."

Shad dredged up the curiosity to wonder what life was like at Mission City, and Jolt passed the time by telling him about it.

"Are there other kids my age?"

"There are several teenagers. I'm not very good at judging exact ages. Ironhide and Chromia are fostering Evanon, who I think is around your age, and he runs around with a bunch of other boys and girls and a few younglings. A youngling is the Cybertronian equivalent of a teenager."

"And that's what you are, right?"

"Not...exactly. I'm more like...a college kid, I guess. I'm an adult, but at the same time, I'm still a student. It's hard to give an exact number, but I think if I were a human I'd be around twenty."

"Where I come from, that's an adult. You'd be married with two or three kids by now...that is, if you'd been a human born in the church."

Jolt said only, "Wow."

"It isn't like that on the outside."

"No, the humans I've seen don't usually find mates or have children until their education is complete."

"So no one in Mission City will worry about my...my being gay for several years."

"Shad, no one will worry about it at all."

Shad blinked. "You mean they won't care, even if they know?"

Jolt said carefully, "I am not an expert on the behavior of humans, but I do know this: there are several openly gay humans on the base, who go about their jobs and live ordinary lives. Some individuals may object, but I don't know if any who do are at Mission City. I suspect so, if only because humans have such a wide variety of beliefs and ideologies. However, neither Optimus Prime nor Colonel Lennox permit gay people to be targeted. People are expected to get along and tolerate one another. Additionally, the people at Mission City are very protective of all children, and they will regard you as a child, someone to be protected and taught, until you turn eighteen. The base will be a safe haven for you."

"I wish...my dad could know that."

"Maybe he does. Who knows what sparks know in the Well, or souls know in Heaven, if they are two different places?"

"I hope so. I hope he knows we all made it out and everything. That he won."

"He did, didn't he? I hope he knows that too."

For the first time that day, Shad smiled. A little while later, Ratchet got there, and Jolt tooted his horn.

If James was intimidated by the presence of two Autobots at his curb, he didn't show it, but then so much had already happened to him that day that it was unlikely a troop of rhinoceroses appearing on his lawn would have phased him. He was in that emergency-management state of exhaustion common to born survivors where things boiled down to identify problem, solve problem, move on to next problem.

After introductions, James said, "I want to thank you two for offering to give my nephew a place to stay. If I could think of a better way to handle things, I wouldn't consider letting him go, but he's in better shape than his mom and his sisters, and I don't think it's good for Shad to be around them right now. But what do you two know about thirteen-year-old boys?"

"I know about younglings, since I practically raised this one," Ratchet said, indicating Jolt, "and two others to boot. And what I don't know, I'll learn from the human parents of teenage sons at Mission City. Robert Epps, one of the men who helped us fight the Battle of Chicago, has a son about Shad's age; his family lives in Mission City. Shad, we can offer you a safe place to heal your wounds and figure yourself out."

James reached in Jolt's window to put his hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Shad, is this what you want to do? Because I talked to a guy who's in my union, he's got a boy who just started college this year and he says you can use his son's room as long as you need to."

"I appreciate that, but they'd be total strangers, Uncle James, and I don't know how they'd react to me: I can't imagine it will stay secret that I'm gay once the trials begin. I know Jolt, and I don't have any surprises to spring on him."

James said quietly, "It's a sick world when you have good reason to be more worried about how humans would react to you than aliens, but I understand where you're coming from." He looked at Shad, then at Jolt and Ratchet for a long moment, and came to a decision.

He got Mary's keys from his pocket and pulled Shad's go-bag out of the red Focus, then dug in his wallet and extracted several twenties and a business card with a picture on it of a plumber who looked suspiciously like Mario. Shad couldn't help a quick smile, and buttoned the money and the card into his shirt pocket.

James squatted again, not resting his forearms on Jolt this time (he wouldn't have the first time, but for ignorance). "Shad, I expect to hear from you once a week, more often whenever you need to talk. You can write or call, email, Facebook, whatever you want. All my information is on that card so don't lose it. And don't worry about spending money to buy clothes or school books, whatever you need to get started. I'm not rich, but I'll make sure you get money to run on every month. As soon as I get Mary and the girls settled so I can be away for a few days, I'll come out and see you."

"Thanks, Uncle James. I'd like that." He clutched the strap of the gym bag that now held all his possessions.

James, paterfamilias, nodded and stood, turning to include Ratchet in his conversation. "I need some contact information from you two. And the same thing goes for you. I expect to hear from you about how Shad is doing, and if he has any trouble, I want to know about it. I also expect to contribute to his upkeep. I don't want to send my kin away, although that's the best solution available in a bad situation. But if anything happens to him out there in the middle of nowhere that could be prevented, so help me God—!"

"Your cell-phone number, please? We'll send our information directly to it."

James gave it, and Ratchet and Jolt both sent their information to his phone. James snapped it open, looked at the message, and smiled. "Thank you both."

Jolt said, "He is under our protection, Mr. White. I swear to you, Shad's safety will come before our own."

"Yes," said Ratchet, "it will."

"Thank you. That's a great relief. Shad, is there anything else you need?"

The boy shook his head. "Something to eat, and I hope some sleep before the cops need to talk to me again. I'll call you as soon as know where I'll be. Will you call me when you know about—about the funeral? I don't know if I should be there, not around Mom and Judith and Atarah, but I'd like to at least know when it is."

James said, "We'll figure something out. Micah would come back and haunt me if I didn't figure out a way to get you to his funeral. Stay safe, Shad. Take care of yourself. It doesn't seem like it now, but the world hasn't ended. You'll come through this. You will. Come and give me a hug, please, because it'll be a while before I see you again."

The Eastgate Church chapter of Shad's life closed as they left the quiet St. Louis neighborhood behind.

Jolt told him, "The Autobots are staying at the airfield, but there are no accommodations there. Optimus Prime has directed me to take you to a motel where the Lady Diarwen, his Consort, has already rented a room. The room next to hers is empty; she is going to rent it for you, and I will stay with you."

"Will the deputies know where I am? I don't want to get in trouble if they come looking for me again."

"They know that you're with us. What would you like to eat?"

"I don't know what to ask for. Can I get...just a plate of regular food? I don't really care what it is."

Jolt conferred with Diarwen. ::I do not know what he means by 'regular food.'::

Diarwen smiled into her phone. "I am sure he means plain farm cooking, Jolt. There is a kitchenette in my room, and a grocery store nearby. I will prepare something for both of us by the time you arrive. I am in room 109, and Shad is right beside me in room 107. I already have his key, so bring him straight to my room when you arrive."

::Yes, Prime Consort.::

By the time Jolt parked, Diarwen was putting the finishing touches on a simple dinner of deli fried chicken, with green beans and baked potatoes. She warmed some biscuits, also found in the grocery store deli, and set out butter and sour cream before answering the door.

It revealed a slender lad in need of a new bowl cut, who had dried mud on his clothes and dried tears on his face.

"Welcome, Shad. I am Diarwen ni Gilthanel. Come in."

"Thank you, ma'am." He indicated his bag and grubby hands. "Jolt said...I'm next door. If I could clean up a little before dinner, please...?"

"Of course. Ah, forgive me, can you manage the key card?"

Her answer was a blank stare. Diarwen gave him the card, and took him next door to show him how it worked.

"The water fixtures will no doubt be strange to you, as well. There is but one faucet. Pull up on the handle to start the water then turn it toward the red dot until it is as warm as you wish. They do provide us with towels and soap and so forth, at least. Is there anything else that you need, Shad?"

"No, ma'am," the boy said. He was so close to collapse that deep tremors were running through his muscles. "It's fine, thanks."

"Very well. I will be right next door, so pound on the wall if you want me."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

"You are welcome. Bring that card with you when you leave your room, else we shall have to get the desk clerk to let you back in."

"Yes, ma'am."

Diarwen left the boy to clean up, and texted her initial to Optimus, knowing he would receive it as a ping: which would tell him that he could answer it later if he were busy. But momentarily, her phone rang.

"Optimus, Diarwen."

"_Acushla_, he is here. He is next door cleaning up for supper."

"How is he?"

"Ah, poor lad, he is as I would expect a grieving child to be. The sooner the reevesmen are done with him today the better."

Optimus did a quick puzzled search and traced _reeve_ to _shire reeve_ to the modern word _sheriff. _"Jolt said that he expressed a desire to rest before dealing with them again."

"Well, then, I will see that he does so. And the situation at the compound...?"

"The fire is out, and the fire marshall has taken charge of that. Another body was found out near the road, that of an adult male who was shot in the back of the head. We do not know the circumstances of that killing yet. The Missouri Department of Social Services will take charge of all the unmarried children under eighteen, and the Jefferson County ASPCA is finding ways to care for the farm animals and household pets."

"Married or not, they are still children. What will happen to them?"

"They are automatically emancipated, and will be treated as adults."

"I heard on the news that a fifth body was found, but there were no specifics. A horrible business. Thank Brigit that Jolt acted on his instincts. The consequences could have been awful if he had not."

Optimus decided to say nothing about Hunt and Boggs' conclusion that being thwarted by one of the "metal demons" might have set Dowling off. They would never know. Jolt had not known that when he acted on the information available to him, and there was no reason for him to know it now, or even at all; let the young medic keep his innocence for a time yet. If there was responsibility to be borne for that decision, then it would be Optimus' to bear.

He had other, more urgent issues to deal with, however. "Diarwen, head off the police before they speak to Shad. They have recovered David's body and he did not die easily. The coroner said that it seems he was beaten to death with a chain. If Shad is as fragile as he seems to be, it would be best if they do not inform him of the details before he is ready to hear them."

Diarwen said, "Indeed; I will see to it. What are your own plans?"

"We are at the sheriff's disposal, for whatever use we might be to him. His department is short-handed, and there are already news trucks gathering."

"This will be a major story for weeks. Dowling was infamous for his protests."

"Yes. There is nothing at all we can do about that."

They said goodbye on that less-than-wonderful note, and disconnected.

End Part 10


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimers in Part 1

Presently Shad arrived at Diarwen's door, freshly scrubbed and wearing a clean shirt and overalls. She invited him to sit, and offered milk or orange juice or coffee. He requested milk and she poured that for him, then some for herself.

She could see that young Master White was already deep into numb exhaustion. After he finished eating (he had no energy for conversation, and Diarwen did not impose any on him), he politely thanked her for the meal, and she saw him back to his room.

Returning, the Sidhe made it her business to call the front desk and order any calls to Shad's room to be put through to her own. As well, Jolt would be watching for anyone approaching.

Later that afternoon, Optimus called to tell her that a St. Louis attorney, appointed on Charlotte Mearing's recommendation, would be representing Shad. "This individual, a Mr. Ogilvie, is to arrange all conversations with the sheriff's department, and to be present for those conversations."

"So, should the sheriff's department wish to interview Shad, I refer them to Mr. Ogilvie and allow him to deal with it?"

"Yes. He will contact you when they need to see Shad next. How is he?"

"He is too exhausted for me to be able to determine very much. He's been sleeping since he finished his lunch."

"The CSI technicians have been at work for several hours now, but they have not announced their findings yet."

"I think it takes them longer than that to do their tests. Alicia could be more specific but as I understand it there often are waiting lists at the labs."

"I see.—Diarwen, how are you? You inhaled quite a bit of smoke, and Ratchet has told me there was less oxygen in your blood than there should have been."

"I am fine, or at least not coughing so much any more. I am taking lobelia and drinking ginger tea, and I have been spending most of my time sitting in my room resting. I was near the floor, and smoke rises. I did not inhale as much as I would have had I been standing. It is fortunate for the cultists that Ironhide's nets pushed them down below the backs of the pews."

Her voice proved the truth of her words to Optimus. She sounded much less hoarse, and the long speech did not result in a coughing spell. He said, "Primus took a hand in many things today. I mourn the dead, but I thank Him there were not far more."

"Aye. How are things back home?"

"Drift reports that everything is quiet, but I will need to send Ironhide, Sides, Prowl and Jazz home tomorrow, after they have had time to recharge. Have you any idea how long it will be until Ratchet will be able to bring Jolt and Shad home?"

"I cannot be sure, _acushla_, but it will not be until a family court judge has the opportunity to hold a custody hearing. It may, from what Jolt has said, hinge on a competency hearing for his mother. She is not doing well. I hope, when the judge hears that the lad is living in a motel, he will expedite things—and I hope that he is not antagonistic towards us."

Optimus said, "Is this why Charlotte felt an attorney was required to represent Shad's interests, although he has committed no crime?"

"Undoubtedly," Diarwen replied.

"My love, I will ask you to remain here if the situation continues past the time that I can absent myself from the base. Neither Ratchet nor Jolt have had much dealing with the intricacies of the human bureaucracy. They may need help to navigate it."

"I will do so," Diarwen replied. "What an awful day."

"Yes, very much so."

"Come to me tonight, if you can."

"I look forward to that as much as you do, Diarwen. I am afraid that I must go; one of the deputies wishes to speak to me."

"Until later, love." Diarwen put her cell away and turned on the television, keeping the sound turned down very low. The fifth body, the one found on the road, had been identified as one of the cult's elders. The surviving elders had identified Dowling as the shooter in that murder, but were being held on charges related to it, as well as for shooting at Jolt and Shad, and for complicity in the attempted poisoning—their fingerprints having been found on paraphernalia left in the kitchen.

She turned the TV off when the room phone rang, and dived for it before it could ring again. "_Is Diarwen_," she answered in Gaelic.

"Diarwen ni Gilthanel?" A woman's midwestern accent stumbled through her full name.

"Aye, who is calling please?"

"I'm Deputy Francis, with the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department. I need to speak with Shad White."

"Have you spoken to his attorney?"

"Could you give me his name, please?"

Diarwen did so. "Please direct all inquiries regarding Shad to the attorney. He will cooperate as his legal counsel permits."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll call him now. You might expect a call from him in fifteen or twenty minutes. He'll probably want to meet you here at the station."

"Thank you, deputy."

Diarwen knocked on Shad's door. "I'm sorry to wake you, but we're going to need to go to the sheriff's department in a little while. I thought you might like time to comb your hair and have a snack before we leave."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said through the door. "I'll be over in five or ten minutes."

"You are welcome. And you are not the only one sleeping. Jolt! I am sorry to bother you, but we will soon require a ride! Have you had your energon yet today?"

Jolt had been more drowsing than sleeping, setting his proximity sensors to wake him immediately if someone whose fields he did not recognize approached Shad's room. He transformed and unsubspaced his ration, which he had chosen to carry in the compact form of energon goodies. "Where are we going?"

"The deputies need to speak with Shad."

"I will be ready when you are."

Diarwen went back in her quarters to put fresh tea on, and had some herself.

As Jolt pulled out of the motel lot, Diarwen in the driver's seat and Shad beside her, she explained that Mearing had chosen an attorney to act on Shad's behalf. "Shad, wait until he nods permission before answering the deputies' questions. If he tells you not to answer, do not. I do not have the sense of any of these people that they mean you any harm, but we do not want any complications in getting your custody settled. The attorney knows best where these things are concerned."

All the boy said was, "Yes, ma'am."

They passed the airfield; Diarwen looked for Optimus but could not see him.

At highway speeds, it took them a little over an hour to reach the sheriff's station. By then, it was after seven and getting dark. Eldon's rusty black pickup was in the parking lot, with Shankie in the cab. He yipped a greeting when he saw Shad, who reached through the crack where the window was rolled down a little to pet him before going inside.

Abigail Nielson and her youngest daughter, Leah, were sitting on a bench inside. Shad hesitated; he felt responsible for turning their world upside down. They looked at him with an equal expression of guilt.

Abigail pulled him into a hug. "Shad, I am so, so sorry about Micah. I swear to you, I had no idea Zeph was capable of such a thing."

"It wasn't your fault. We all knew they weren't quite right, but no one knew it was this bad, that people were going to die."

"Why do they want you here? They don't think you had anything to do with any of that, do they?"

"No, no, they want to question me as a witness. Zeph and Dowling chased me and David the night they, um, killed him. They don't think you did anything, do they?"

"No, of course not. But Leah is a witness to some things that happened that night also."

"Oh," Shad said. "Where will you go now?"

"We saw a social worker. There's a hotel in St. Louis, they're going to get us a room there, and we have to go tomorrow to apply for food stamps and things. I don't know how to do any of that."

Leah said, "We're lucky we got a room, Mama. Some people didn't get a place to live at all. They'll have to sleep in their cars or—or wherever. The papers we have to fill out don't look that complicated. It's going to be OK."

Abigail Neilson did not look reassured.

Shad asked Leah, "Will you still be taking internet classes?"

"I think so, since it's free. I'll need to find somewhere I can use a computer."

"They have them at the library, David said."

"Good. Send me a message through the site and let me know when you get settled."

"I will. I'll be in Nevada."

"Shad. I can't take Shankie to that hotel with me. Can you take him?"

Shad looked helplessly at Diarwen, who said, "People have pets on base. I will care for him myself, if necessary. He will be honored as a hero who saved your life, and those of your cousins."

Tears welled up in Leah's eyes, and she choked out, "Thank you."

The two children, accompanied by Diarwen, went out into the parking lot. Leah got Shankie out of the truck, along with his supplies: a half-bag of dog food, comb, and nail clippers. She'd also thought to grab his medical records.

Shad held them in one hand and Shankie's leash in the other as Leah went to her knees to wrap her arms around the dog's neck. "Bye, Shankie," Leah whispered. "I may never see you again, but I will always love you."

Shad, who had not been able to cry for himself since leaving his uncle, felt his own tears start. Leah stood up then, and the two children held one another close, and cried.

A shiny black Lincoln pulled into the lot, and a man in an expensive suit got out. Jolt opened his door for Shad to put the dog inside; Shankie whined as Leah was lost to his sight. Diarwen said, "Jolt, could you subspace Shankie's luggage? He will eat all his food otherwise, I fear."

This accomplished, Diarwen said to the man in the suit, "Mr. Ogilvie?"

"Yes, and are you Ms. Gilthanel?"

"I am, and this is your client, Shad White."

Shad said nervously, "I don't understand why I need a lawyer. I haven't done anything."

Ogilvie smiled from inside his expensive suit. "No, you haven't. But you're a minor, and your custody is in question. I'm here to represent you and to make sure that all of your rights are respected. I want to talk to the deputies for a moment before they question you. Don't talk to them if they try to ask you questions when I'm not with you. After I've had a chance to see what it is they want, you and I will have a private conversation, then we'll talk to the deputies."

"OK," Shad said.

"It's going to be OK, Shad. You have some very highly-placed friends that you have not met. People are going to take very good care of you."

Shad just nodded. If there was one thing he had learned this day, it was that, when push came to shove, there was no one he could trust to take good care of him except himself. Either they had their own agenda, or they got killed trying to protect him. And either way, he didn't plan to let anyone else get too close, ever again.

While Ogilvie talked to the two deputies who would be interviewing Shad, Leah and her mother were allowed to go. Leah asked the deputy at the desk for directions to the hotel they were supposed to go to, and he printed out an internet map for them. Abigail looked at it, shook her head, and handed the map to Leah. The two left together.

Shad figured he knew who was the brains of that outfit, and immediately felt guilty—but poor Abigail just wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, though he was glad for Leah's sake that she was kind. At least they still had each other. Abigail's other kids were chips off Zeph's block just as much as Martin was, and Shad doubted Abigail and Leah would fit in with them well, wherever they ended up.

The interview was nothing new, sixteen different ways of asking the same questions over and over, the two deputies taking turns asking Shad those repetitive questions.

The boy didn't miss that Diarwen's scowl grew stormier with every repetition. Shad dutifully watched the lawyer for permission to answer each question, which was nearly always granted, and he told the simple truth each time.

Even as tired and emotionally wrung-out as he was, Shad could see that there was nothing really complicated about what had happened. It was horrible, sad beyond enduring, but not complex. The cult members (though Shad didn't think of them that way) had trusted a crazy man and paid the price for that misplaced trust. The cost was high: five lives, and the survivors losing everything they had—because the land, the majority of the livestock, and the farm equipment were all in Dowling's name.

Perhaps the greatest injury, though, was that the families, being as large as they were, were going to be broken up and scattered to the four winds.

Everything Shad had thought was real was like one of the programs on the TV back in the motel room: just an illusion that lasted only long enough to tell the interesting part of the story.

The cultists all had to live through the rest of it, though. The parts the TV audience didn't want to watch because it was boring or sad.

Shad found, about the time round 17 began, that he was nodding off. He jerked awake, to find both the deputies and his team, Diarwen and Ogilvie, staring at him.

Ogilvie said sharply, "Are you planning to charge my client with something, or to ask him a different set of questions this time? Because if the answer to both those things is no, I think we should continue this in the morning. He's cooperated fully with this line of questioning, and he's in no state to do more."

"We're not in court, Counsellor. We're trying to get to the bottom of five homicides and an attempted Jonestown suicide pact. Shad here is the only one who left because he wanted to."

That woke Shad up. "No, I—I'm not. There have been other kids who have run off, two or three a year. Some of the older ones might know more than I do. I'm only thirteen. In the elders' eyes, I wasn't going to be an adult for almost another year. They didn't tell me more than I needed to know to get through the day's work."

"Can you remember the runaways' names?"

"Sure." He looked at Ogilvie. "That's OK, isn't it?"

"Yes, Shad. Give them as much physical description as you can, too."

"You mean—maybe they didn't really run away, they ended up like David?"

Ogilvie saw the horror in the boy's eyes and said compassionately, "We don't have any way to know that, Shad."

Shad's horror receded.

Ogilvie continued, "Look, don't start with the ones who ran away first, but the latest ones you know of, so that their descriptions won't have changed all that much. It'll make it easier for the authorities to find them if they know what they look like."

"Yes, sir."

Shad started talking, letting the tape recorder do its work. "Adam Hornsickle left last year, after Thanksgiving. The elders had questioned him several times, but I don't know over what. Adam took his girlfriend Sarah Mantle"— Shad gave her description too—"and ran off in the middle of the night.

"A few months before that, September maybe, James and Dolly Enwright hitched a ride to St. Louis with some people who were buying from the produce stand and never came back. The elders found out later that they were expecting their first child. They'd been married almost five years, and everybody thought Dolly was barren.

"Before that, Hepzibah Collins didn't want to get married at fourteen, and after she said so Reverend Dowling preached a church sermon just at her and called her a disobedient Jezebel. When church let out she started walking, and didn't stop at the gates. Reverend Dowling told her family not to go after her."

One of the deputies said incredulously, "And they obeyed him?"

"Yes, sir," Shad said. He had forgotten to ask Ogilvie for permission to answer that, but the deputy had no more questions, just shook his head and started making notes in his notebook. This goddamned case was awful to begin with, and now it was having pups.

Shad resumed the tale of Hepzibah Collins, almost fourteen, whom he had seen leave: she hadn't looked back at the compound once. When out of it, she turned toward St. Louis and stuck out her thumb. No Eastgater had seen her since.

"January before last, Todd Jenkins, he was seventeen, he left after his second fiance jilted him. I heard he done odd jobs in Festus until he turned eighteen, then joined the Marines."

"I remember that kid," the other deputy said. "Not a bad kid, just young. He made it through boot camp, I know that." Out came that notebook.

Shad remembered several more whose names he knew and whose descriptions he could recount, growing fuzzier as he reached further back in time: nine years' worth of names and descriptions of people he had known.

Before them, there had been several names that he had occasionally heard mentioned; he had never seen those runaways. "But my Uncle James might know more about them. He left to join the Army during Desert Storm, but he could tell you what it was like before that."

The deputies looked at one another, and Diarwen's scowl grew deeper. But one of them said, "Shad, we thank you. We might have more questions for you later; we'll be in touch if we do." He gave Shad a civil nod, Diarwen another, and Ogilvie a third.

An exhausted Shad climbed into Jolt's back seat with Shankie, who had lain down in absolute misery when his goddess, in the only car he had ever ridden in before that day, had really and truly left him.

He had no way of knowing that his goddess was just a little girl, who had given him up with grief in her own heart: she had no power to prevent the owner of a welfare hotel from sending him to the pound.

Shad stroked the bereaved animal's harsh coat. He had started out this morning with a home and a family. Now he was a homeless kid with a shattered family and an equally homeless dog, sitting in the backseat of a talking alien car, who could become a giant robot whenever he wanted.

A few feet away, Diarwen sensed his roiling aura and wanted to get him somewhere quiet where he could start to heal. But the attorney said, "Ms. Gilthanel, if I might have just a moment of your time. How is it that you know this boy?"

She got into her bag and pulled out her NEST identification. "I have been tasked with protecting him. I understood that Director Mearing had arranged for you to represent Shad. Her briefings normally contain all the information one needs to complete one's mission."

"She didn't give me much in the way of how Shad became acquainted with the Cybertronians, and she didn't mention your name at all. We are talking about a thirteen-year-old boy who lost his father this morning. You'll forgive me, I hope, for exercising a little more than minimum due diligence in carrying out my duty to protect his interests."

"Yes, Attorney Ogilvie, I will." Diarwen found a smile somewhere. "To tell you the entire tale, Shad became acquainted with Jolt—Jolt is a Cybertronian whose alt-mode, the vehicular form he can assume," she added quickly, as the attorney's eyes became lost, "is the blue-and-gray Chevrolet Shad is now sitting in—during a protest that the cult held near Chicago soon after the battle. Jolt, who is barely adult by Cybertronian standards, offered Shad a place to hide inside himself when it looked as if there might be a riot. Apparently, he and Shad kept in touch. When Shad found himself endangered, he called on Jolt for help. The rest of us came to Jolt's assistance some hours after he left our Nevada base, and you are aware of what we found here. We do not know how much Shad's friendship with Jolt had to do with Dowling's attempt to do away with him, and how much could be attributed to other factors. Director Mearing feels that Shad should be under NEST's protection rather than in the exceptionally vulnerable position of a ward of the foster care system, or homeless on the street. Sir, at present, I am that protection."

"In that case I'm sure we'll be seeing one another again, as long as Shad is my client." The two exchanged business cards, shook hands, and turned to their respective rides.

Diarwen asked, "Jolt, would you prefer to have me ride in your driver's seat, or use the passenger seat while you produce a holoform?"

"If you would take the driver's seat, Prime Consort, that would be helpful. I don't have the skill with projection Jazz or Mirage do."

"Of course." She got in and fastened the seat belt.

The return to the hotel was faster. The traffic, never very bad on Sunday evening, had thinned to the occasional car now and then, except in the city proper. Whenever Jolt's sensors detected a long stretch of clear freeway he made good use of it.

When they pulled into the lot, Shad and Shankie were both sound asleep. Diarwen got Shad inside, on his bed, and removed his boots; she doubted that he would remember any of that.

She helped herself to the boy's room card, and handed Jolt the watch, saying she was taking Shankie for a walk so that he could be left overnight with Shad.

When she returned the dog to the room, she gave him water and food.

When the animal finished eating, and she had refilled his water bowl, she squatted down beside the door. He watched her carefully as she proffered a piece of homemade beef jerky that she had been saving for a snack. "You probably need this more than I do, laddie. Your girl loves you very much and wants what is best for you, even if it means you shall be apart. And this lad here, I think, needs a good dog such as yourself. Take care of him, aye?" She reached out to scratch him beside an ear, and he turned his head into the caress.

The dog's aura settled somewhat. Wondering just how much of spoken language a dog could understand, Diarwen saw herself out, made sure the door locked behind her, and went past a row of tall planters that shielded the walk in front of the lower level of motel rooms from the parking lot.

"Jolt, have you heard from Optimus, by any chance?"

"I have, Prime Consort. I notified him that we were back. He said that the sheriff asked for his assistance in keeping the reporters and curiosity seekers out of the Eastlanders' compound. The entire place is a crime scene, and the CSI technicians have not yet finished. He said for you to rest, and he will see you in the morning."

Diarwen swallowed her disappointment. "I see. Thank you, Jolt. A quiet watch to you."

"Goodnight, my lady."

Happy that she had enough magic for small things now, she set a charm to waken her if someone tried to open the door or if Shad should pound on the wall to get her attention: this after checking that calls to Shad's room still came to hers instead. She made another cup of herbal tea for the smoke inhalation, and took it to bed with her.

Next door, Shankie mourned for his goddess, but the new god allowed him onto the bed, which not even his goddess had done (the new god was sound asleep and in no state to protest). He positioned himself between the boy and the door, and slept.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The small, swift flying frame fled through cold darkness, jinking her way through bursts of disabling EM shot at her by her pursuers.

They must have been been desperate, the pilot realized; the two were usually much better shots than that.

Over the comms, Skyquake sounded equally desperate. ::Borealis, come back! If we have to face Strika without you we are doomed!::

_Possibly you should have thought of that before you coerced me into risking my life, and those of my newsparks,_ Borealis thought, but she spared no more attention than that to her erstwhile trinemates.

The space bridge loomed, and Borealis aimed her flying frame right through the middle of its dark vortex, spun the nimble little thing on its axis, sent the bridge vectors for her next destination, and used the bridge again, going back another way.

Skyquake, followed by Dreadwing, burst through the gate to Borealis' original destination too close to her second passage to see her.

::What the - where the Pit did that little glitch get to?:: Dreadwing made a very wide circle beyond the bridge, now no longer active, and spread his sensors as far as they would reach.

Skyquake did the same, his circle at ninety degrees to his twin's. ::There's no cover here.::

None at all in fact; no handy gas giants, no dust lanes among star nurseries, no planets and their associated debris circling any nearby star.

::Did her frame break up?::

::No debris. No trail of exhaust, either.::

If they could not find her, Primus only knew what form Strika's displeasure would take. Desperately, the twins searched every cranny of space around the space bridge for any sign of their vanished trinemate: actually less for her than for the sparks she and Skyquake had kindled with Strika.

Only when they knew they would yellow-line on the way back did the twins limp home to New Darkmount to report their failure, and accept their punishment.

End Part 11


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimers in Part 1

_Standoff at Local Air Force Base_, the papers would have read, if any reporters present had been able to understand Cybertronian.

And there _were_ reporters present. Jazz had exited the area where the Cybertronians waited to board Silverbolt for the flight home, and spoken to them at Optimus' request, though not about the standoff.

He got back in time to hear Ironhide, his arms crossed over his chest, say simply, "Optimus, I ain't leaving you here by yourself with Soundwave out there."

Optimus pinched the bridge of his nasal structures. "Hide. That was a simple, direct order: get in Silverbolt and go home."

Standoff: Jazz climbed into Silverbolt's cargo area, and kept an audial turned in that direction.

Ironhide said, "I don't care if it was a herd of flatulent drillers, I ain't leavin' you danglin' out here on your own, bait for that buncha renegades. You been on the news as bein' in Missouri, and Soundwave's bunch watches the news same as everybody else on this Primus-forsaken dirtball. So I'm stayin'."

Irresistible force, meet immovable object. Jazz realized that the old crank was right to call it as he saw it: Optimus would be putting himself at risk.

Prowl's tactical computer came to the same conclusion, and as 2iC, the cyberninja prepared to say as much. However, Optimus realized it too, apparently. "All right, all right. Belay that order." He switched to English and raised his voice to be heard by the human ground crew as well as the Cybertronians' ride. "The load is complete, Silverbolt."

Silverbolt must have commed his passengers, because there was a shuffling of weight distribution, and then Silverbolt closed his cargo doors and went to the runway, awaiting his takeoff clearance. Above him, his brothers circled at altitude, waiting for him.

Still out of sorts, Ironhide asked, ::What are you so happy about?::

::Confirmation.::

::Of what?::

::That I am not surrounded by fools who would follow me blindly against all common sense. I have seen more than enough of that lately.::

A snort of exhaust that wasn't quite a laugh rumbled out of the Topkick's twin stacks. ::See yer point,:: he replied.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

A team of CSI officers were following the trail of evidence backward in time from the broken-down shed where David Grybowski met his death. They had found and photographed drag marks, and following those, discovered the stone where David hit his head. The next evidence was a scrap of fabric hung up on a bent nail, a match to the shirt the White boy described David as wearing that night.

They had not yet found the Grybowski boy's clothing. At most crime scenes, that would set off all kinds of warning bells, but the coroner's report had listed no signs of sexual assault.

One of them said, "Looks like the boys got out here, right where Shad said they did. They split up, Shad took off behind the equipment barn toward his house. David went that way—why?"

Another said, "Label this speculation, okay? From what I understand of Shad's interviews, David was planning to leave the compound. Maybe not that night, but if he decided to go, he might have been making for that deep gulley, because he'd know that two old men couldn't have followed him once he was in it. He'd lose them and come out under the bridge. From there he'd get up onto the highway, and make a beeline for Festus."

The senior CSI sighed. "But he fell and hit his head on that rock."

Their appointed note-taker industriously wrote all this down. None of the speculation would appear in their final report, but their lead would take the officer in charge of dealing with the Eastgate case aside and sketch out for him the probable sequence of events. Very likely this would happen over a beer, which would not lessen the CSI officer's extreme scrupulousness. She would point out what was speculation (David's probable motive in running in the direction he chose), what was witness testimony (David's clothing and his decision to leave the compound), what was provable scientifically: more than enough to convict the late Zephariah Martin, whose glasses, taken apart for forensic evaluation, had David's blood between lens and frame, of a hate-crime murder.

Possibly Horton Dowling would have escaped that fate, but he was dead too, and no real loss to anyone.

Another CSI, flipping through a thick sheaf of paper, offered, "The coroner says the head injury wasn't the cause of death, but it would have slowed him down. Can't prove it knocked him out, although the pathologist says it probably did, so let's assume they caught up with him where the drag marks start. If we've got the full evidence and the right interpretation, they dragged him to the shed, where they tortured him for Shad's name, which he died rather than reveal. Nielsen and Dowling buried him under the shed, used bleach in an attempt to clean up the scene, then covered the big pools of blood, as well as the grave itself, with sand and gravel. Sometime after that, around 1:30 AM she says, Leah looked out her upstairs window and saw Dowling outside in bloody clothes."

"Can't be proven absolutely, because blood looks like black paint in the moonlight."

"Yeah, Leah said that too. Then she and her brothers went to the sheep barn to help a ewe who was having trouble lambing; that was about two. Once that was taken care of, by four or so, Leah started back to the house, and saw Zeph throw clothing out of an upstairs window to Dowling, who took it back to his house."

"Okay," the senior tech said, making notes. "Team One, check the bushes under the Nielsons' bathroom window for blood transfer from the clothing. Team Two, search Dowling's house for the clothes."

They went their separate ways.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The Jefferson County Courthouse was located about twenty minutes from Festus in neighboring Hillsboro, a two-story red brick building on the town's main street.

Family court was held in a small courtroom on the building's second floor. Shad White had an end seat in that room, with Mr. Ogilvie beside him and Diarwen next to the attorney. Across the aisle sat a young female attorney and the Whites: James, Atarah, Judith, and finally Mary. Damaris and Tabitha were with their husbands, presumably, but as married couples, they were emancipated minors and would not be involved in the court proceedings.

The reality of their situation had settled on Atarah and Judith: they were here to find out what was going to happen to them. Neither was married—an arrangement had been made for them to marry the two youngest Duquesne boys, who were twelve and thirteen. The sisters had their hearts set on a double wedding, which would have taken place when the younger boy turned fourteen. Looking back, they could see how little persuasion it had taken for them to convince their father to delay Judith's marriage until Atarah's fiance was of age: Micah White had loved them enough to respect their wishes, but he had not been happy with the idea of them marrying so young anyway.

All of that was in the past. Their home gone and their plans shattered, the sisters had no idea what would become of them.

Mary was silent, staring straight ahead. In conversation with Shad's attorney, James said that if someone spoke to her, she answered in monosyllables now when she answered at all, and she ate only when someone set food before her. She had to be helped to bathe and dress.

She was fading, and Diarwen understood why. She had lost her soulmate, and there was no healing that. Her aura was torn—shredded past reweaving by the death of her soulmate. With an acceptance born of long years of experience, the Sidhe knew the woman might have the strength of will to live to see another Christmas, or perhaps last until her next anniversary or her husband's birthday, but not long after, she would go to sleep one night and not waken.

Attempting to prevent that, in the absence of some reason of Mary's own to want to continue, would be cruel: extending her death rather than her life. In Mary's mind, her daughters were grown and no longer needed her, and her son was dead to her; she had no further reason to stay in this world.

Diarwen asked Brigit to grant Mary wisdom and comfort, and when it came time for her to raise anchor, clear sailing.

The bailiff came in. "All rise! Family court of Jefferson County, Missouri, is now is session, Judge Millicent McBray presiding."

Everyone stood, Judith assisting her mother, and Judge McBray took the bench. She was grandmotherly, with kind, weary eyes and a mop of white curls courtesy a boxful of chemicals. A lacy white collar softened her black robes; she adjusted her skirts, then nodded to the bailiff.

"Be seated."

The courtroom did so.

"First case on the docket?" Judge McBray asked.

"James White petitions the court in the matter of custody of his nephew Shadrach White, and nieces Judith White and Atarah White."

"I will entertain pretrial motions at this time."

James' attorney stood, and gave the bailiff a copy of their motion to the judge. "Your honor, plaintiff moves for sole physical and legal custody of the minor child Shadrach White, his nephew, and for joint physical and legal custody of his nieces Judith White and Atarah White, on the grounds that his sister-in-law, Mary, is unfit for sole custody of the children."

"And you, sir?"

Ogilvie also stood. "Marcus Ogilvie, of Danning, Ogilvie and Ogilvie, your honor. I'm here to represent Shadrach White in these proceedings. At this time, if it please the court, I would like to present an _amicus curiae_ brief on behalf of the Networked Elements, Supporters and Transformers."

"Bailiff." Once the legal document was in her hands, the judge glanced down and was not surprised to find that NEST was a part of the Department of Homeland Security.

She put that knowledge aside to ask, "Is Mary White, the children's mother, present in this courtroom?"

Mary nodded, then said, "Here, your honor."

"Mrs. White, are you represented by legal counsel?"

She shook her head. "I don't have any money."

"Do you wish to have an attorney appointed for you?"

She shook her head again. "No."

"Mrs. White, do you wish to enter a motion in opposition to your brother-in-law's motion?"

Again, she shook her head, this time silently.

"Do you understand that this motion, if granted, will give Mr. White an equal say in the parenting of your daughters, and terminate your parental rights to your son?"

"I understand. That's what I want."

The judge stared at her and finally said, "This court will take the motion under advisement. Before rendering a ruling, the court requires that Mary White receive a competency examination to be certain that she is legally capable of surrendering her parental rights. The court further requires that Shadrach White undergo psychiatric examination so that the court may determine the best interests of the child in this case." She flipped through the documents before her. "Judith White, your age is fifteen years, is that correct?"

"Yes, your honor."

"Do you find this custody arrangement suitable?"

"Yes, your honor."

"And, Atarah, you are fourteen?"

"Yes, your honor."

"Are you happy with your uncle sharing your custody with your mother?"

"Yes, your honor. I would like to terminate my relationship to Shadrach White. That thing"—she jerked her chin at Shad—"is a homosexual, an abomination before the Lord, and he is no brother of mine."

Shad went pale.

There was a murmur in the courtroom; some spectators were appalled and others in agreement.

Judge McBray stared at the girl long enough to make her uncomfortable, then said crisply, "There is no legal way to terminate a sibling relationship, Miss White. I wish for you greater maturity in the coming years." She transferred her attention to Shad. "Shadrach White, do you agree with the transfer of your custody to your uncle?"

Shad stood up. "Yes, your honor. I agree to it."

The judge told the attorneys, "Approach the bench."

Shad hesitated, got out of the way so Ogilvie could get out, then sat down again. He couldn't hear what the judge and the lawyers were whispering about. He leaned over and whispered to Diarwen, "What's going on? Why does she want me to see a psychiatrist?"

"These examinations are very common, Shad. We will speak to your attorney about it after the hearing."

"Yes, ma'am."

The judge finished her conversation with the attorneys, then said, "Thank you, you may step back."

When the two attorneys had taken their places, the judge took a moment to look through the papers, then said, "It is the ruling of the court that all three children remain where they presently are residing. Judith White and Atarah White shall also be examined by the psychiatrist. This court is in recess until all examinations have been completed." She tapped her gavel and gave the Whites time to clear the court.

Diarwen allowed Shad and Ogilvie to precede her and dropped back a step to put herself between Shad and the White sisters. She whispered to Ogilvie, "Get Shad back to Jolt. I am right behind you."

He nodded understanding.

Diarwen kept them moving quickly. When they reached the parking lot, she said, "Shad has questions for you, but I do not feel that this is a good place for them."

"My office is all the way in St. Louis. There's a little restaurant a few blocks from here, if you'd like to talk over an early lunch."

"That sounds fine. We will follow you."

"Two blocks, and make a left; it's called Willoughby's. It'll be on your right, Jolt."

"Yes, sir."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Today, the lead deputy, Coy Lewis, was in charge of the crime scene at the Eastlanders' compound. He got off the phone with the coroner's office and turned to Optimus Prime. "Well, the Grybowski boy's murder looks like an open and shut case. His blood was found underneath the bezel of Zeph's watch and between the frame and lenses of his glasses. Dowling's belongings were too badly burned to check for blood evidence, but CSI found the remains of clothing that accord with what David was wearing that night. Zeph's clothes and Dowling's own were burned there too. There wasn't more ash than that would have generated in the fireplace, so It doesn't look like anyone else was involved."

"What about the other elders, the ones who shot at Jolt and Shad, and helped prepare the poison?"

"We've got them on that, and on the other elder's killing too. The prosecutor will want to hang accessory to murder on them in David's case as well, but I don't think he'll be able to. There's no way to prove they even knew David was dead."

"What happens now?"

"Once the CSI team is finished, that's it for our involvement. We'll board up the buildings, and once we leave, the looters will get in. We don't have enough people to guard it. Damn shame. This could have been a pretty good place to live. I don't understand why people who had everything going for them didn't get Dowling some help when it got obvious the guy was off the rails."

"The cult mentality is to blame, most likely. They come to believe that their leader is the only hope of salvation. To them, it seems that the madness is outside rather than in their midst."

"Yeah. I'm sure the shrinks will have a field day," the deputy said. "Sure do appreciate the help securing this place. Never saw a crime scene this spread out before."

"It is not a problem. I have reason to stay in the area, if my duties permit, for a few more days."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Once through that first space bridge, Borealis put the pedal to the metal. She went through three more bridges in a single joor, the speedy little scout frame around her handling like a dream.

She had never in her life thought she might need a flying frame. But big with eggs as she was, she did. She was loosening her armor at least once every joor now, had been in the eight joor since she stole the ship and left Darkmount; without armor, she was confined to atmosphere or her flying frame. Or at least she was if she wished to preserve the lives of her sparklings.

She knew she had to get to Ratchet, and the help he could offer her. If she did not, all four of them, herself and her three sparklings, would die.

The last of four space bridges was located in what she was to learn the humans called the Barnard's Star system. It spat Borealis' ship tumbling toward the eight-planet sun that was presently home to Optimus Prime's Autobots.

Upon arrival in that system, she wasted very little time in hiding in an asteroid belt and set all systems running at minimum, just enough to keep herself and her sparklings safe; the presence of a nearby gas giant might provide cover if she needed it.

Two joor later, she still was not sure she and her sparklings were safe, but she desperately needed recharge. The system's biggest gas giant was pretty "noisy," all things considered, and so she pulled into the space between of two of Jupiter's rings, and parked behind a good chunk of radioactive space junk.

Then, once again, she loosened armor that she could not persuade herself to remove, and powered down.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen's phone rang soon after that. _"Is Diarwen."_

"Optimus, Diarwen. Something has come up which I am not at liberty to discuss here. Ratchet, Ironhide and I must return to base immediately. I am sorry to abandon you."

"I understand. Apparently we have a few days to wait while things work their way through the court. Be safe, _acushla._"

"I...do not think it is that sort of emergency. I will tell you more when I can. Please keep me informed of developments in Shad's case."

"As soon as I have anything to tell you, I will do so," she said. "For now, we are waiting. Shad's appointment with his court-appointed psychiatrist is not until Wednesday. There is also the matter of his father's funeral. His uncle is attending to that, but we have no date yet."

"I see. —Be safe yourself, my love."

"Aye. I do not believe that I am in danger, either."

"I am relieved to hear it. I must go; our planes will be landing shortly."

"Call me later, if you can."

"I will."

She returned to the table. "That was Optimus. He and his team have been summoned back to Mission City. I do not know why."

Ogilvie said, "I hope nothing is wrong."

"As do I. He could not discuss the particulars."

Shad asked, "What does that mean?"

Diarwen said, "He could not tell me. There are parts of his official life that are not my business to know."

"And he has to leave? I didn't think anybody gave Optimus Prime orders."

Ogilvie smiled. "That's the nature of military life, son. As they say, 'When the man says go, you go.'"

"I've heard Dad say that."

"What branch was he in?" Diarwen asked.

"The Army. All I know is that he was part of a tank crew."

"I can find out about his military service, if you would like to know that."

"Yes, please," said Shad. For the first time since his father's death, he felt no tears welling up at the mention of Micah White. "I would like that."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus rolled directly into Admin as soon as he deplaned from the C-130 that had just brought him from Missouri, and transformed as he approached. "What do you have, Prowl?"

Prowl said, "I have a ship entering a distant Earth orbit which hails me as a refugee from Strika's group, designation 'Borealis.'"

Comms, at least on the bot side, erupted. Optimus translated for the humans' sake, and said at the same time he sent, ::Ask her why she left. Better yet, can you patch her through?:: Aloud, he said, "Sideswipe, please translate for our human friends."

Two seconds later, a small green face showed in the monitor. "Greetings, Optimus Prime." The grainy image flickered with distance.

"Greetings, Borealis. We welcome you; you wish asylum among us?"

"Please. I carry three newsparks, those of Strika and my trinemate Skyquake, as well as my own."

Optimus leaned forward slightly. "Please clarify: you are presently carrying _three _newsparks?"

"That is correct, Prime."

"What is your medical situation?"

"I will very soon be in dire need of Ratchet's attention. I have a file that describes the medical progress of my carrying so far."

Optimus pinged Ratchet, and once the bot pinged him back, sent him the record of the conversation so far. Ratchet barged through the doors from the nearby medbay and arrived in a rush.

"This is Ratchet, my chief medical officer."

"Borealis," Ratchet said, and got right to the heart of the matter. "How soon can you get to us?"

"Quickly. I am presently outside the farthest orbit of your planet's debris field, but I have deep reservations about making any closer approach. I am picking up numerous radio signals from different sources, and do not know who controls the airspace. I request an escort."

Prowl sent, ::She could be trying to lure an escort out there for her trinemates to capture.::

Optimus shared that with Ratchet, and opened a channel among the three of them. ::Yes, she could. Ratchet, how much time do we have to stall her?::

Ratchet did not answer directly. Instead, he said, "Borealis, when did you spark? In terms of orn, please."

The answer made the Prime, the Praxian, and the medic all scowl.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The pilot couldn't believe his luck. Seventeen days after he was assigned to the 65th Aggressors, Nellis' "black hat" training squadron, he was on deck when the call came through.

Still: if you had to age out of combat, and short of being killed you did, 65th Aggressors was a really good squadron to fly with.

Calling this fellow a "pilot" was a bit of a misnomer, though. What the man truly was, to the core of his being, was a passionate lover of the goddess Machine-powered Flight. And _every day_ he got to worship her.

Briefing was a simple matter of being told, "You're going up with live armament to escort an ET in. You may get into a firefight. We'll give you details on the way. Good luck and good flying, ladies, gentlemen."

The arming of his bird gave him time enough to dig out his cell and send emails to everyone he loved, and a few close friends as well. Then he turned off his cell, put it into his locker, got into his flight suit, and went to worship in his bird, knowing he might never again set foot on the earth: just as he had done almost every day for the last fifteen years.

One of two dozen, trailed by the two dozen more of the 64th Aggressor squadron, his flight left Nellis behind and below, and met the sky on its own terms.

In the air, chatter was minimal after the briefing was completed, mostly because stunned silence reigned among them. A _Transformer_. They were escorting in a Transformer, alleged to be seeking asylum among Optimus Prime's cadre...and pregnant, or whatever it was Transformers called that.

At 50 angels, 50,000 feet, the 64th reached its maximum ceiling, and set its F-16 Falcons in a holding pattern. The 65th flew F-15Cs, which gave them 15 angels on the 64th. They settled into their own holding pattern at that altitude.

The Aerialbots passed them by with a waggle of wings but no radio chatter.

The bogie was first visible as a tiny point of light. Coming closer, it resolved itself into a spiky dark-grey thing that reminded him uncomfortably of the 'Con flyers downed in Chicago. However, this was visibly a sprinter, and those had been boxers: they had muscle at the expense of speed. This one was all speed and almost no muscle at all.

"Almost" meant that she was armed, though, in Cybertronian fashion, which was difficult to deal with.

The squadron leader hailed it. "Incoming Cybertronian, we welcome you to Earth, and are here to give you escort. We will establish a pattern with you at the center; please do not be alarmed."

"Acknowledged, escort leader. Thank you," said a feminine voice.

The newbie among the pilots would later find that this being had no acquaintance whatever of English up until the time his squadron reached 30 angels that morning.

Above him, he saw 17th Weapons' F15s take up their post, their blue-stripe paint almost invisible against the sky: guarding the refugee's six, and being the second line of defense after the Aerialbots. The radio crackled for a moment as the three deployments from Nellis established contact with one another, then again as the Top Gun guys from Fallon established themselves above the 17th.

Above them all, free of atmo restrictions, flew the Aerialbots.

For all their five layers of protection were prepared for a trap, none was sprung. His group saw the refugee down to the runway at the Mission City base, and returned to Nellis.

Still, as he landed, the pilot thought that this day's duty would make a good addition to the book he was writing for his children about what he did while they were little. Most nights, he read a chapter from it to them, always careful not to leave it at a cliffhanger.

Some missions were exciting, some weren't; this had been "unexciting but important." It was good for kids to know that life could go that way sometimes.

His name...he'd be the first to say that his name wasn't important. He flew in defense of his homeland, and that was all that mattered.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

When Borealis exited her craft, she proved to reach only to Optimus' elbow. Optimus, standing beside the medic, put up a servo to assist the small green Seeker down the ramp to the ground. "Welcome, Borealis."

Beside him, Optimus was aware of Sideswipe's interest sharpening, and then Hot Rod's doing the same from beyond Prowl. He wondered how that was going to play out down the road, but had his servos full at the moment, trying to keep a very gravid femme from kneeling to him. "Please," he said, laying his other servo gently on her shoulder, "you need not do that. I will accept any oath of fealty you choose to make as valid if made from a standing position."

"Yes, Prime," she said, and straightened. One of his servos on her shoulder, the other holding her own servo, she sent glyphs of identification, fealty, and acceptance to the Prime.

He returned the appropriate glyphs, and turned to Ratchet, twitching impatiently behind him. "May I introduce Ratchet, our CMO? You spoke with him earlier."

"How do you do," Ratchet said. "This way, please."

Which left Will Lennox standing there with his mouth open.

Optimus sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'd apologize, Will, but that's Ratchet."

"Yeah, well. She's new here, she needs medical care, and we'll wait to surprise her with the squishies"—Sideswipe snorted—"until she's had a chance to settle in."

"Thank you, my friend. That makes things much easier."

Lennox gave him a casual salute, and moved off.

With Ratchet's help, Borealis climbed onto an exam table in medbay, and said, "I have a file concerning my carrying for you from a neutral medic Strika has enslaved. His designation is Sawbones."

"Never met him," Ratchet said briskly, scanning her. "I'm going to ask a member of our staff, Jazz, to take that file first. I don't mean to offend you, but what we know of you is what you've told us. For all we know you're a spy for Strika."

If he needed proof that she wasn't, her recoil at that name would have given it to him. But he waited until Jazz arrived all the same.

End Part 12


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimers in Part 1

Jazz scanned the file, and passed the stick to Ratchet. "It's safe," he said.

He nodded to the patient and to the medic and went on his way, fields roiling with anger. And when Ratchet read the file, his did too.

This little green femme...Borealis was barely more than a youngling herself. Ratchet's medical opinion was that she shouldn't have been carrying for another full vorn. As well, at that age, she shouldn't have been carrying the sparklings of a Seeker as good-sized as Strika.

And the iron shavings on top of that cup of energon? Borealis' own small size meant in any case, at any age, no matter who sparked them, she should not have been carrying all three.

Sawbones' notes made it clear that the persuasion applied to her to get her into this situation was just short of compulsion, and the fact that her trinemates had quite a few vorn on her had contributed to her reluctant acquiescence.

If he found them he would pound them out of the sky, Ratchet thought. As for Strika, if the medic ever laid servo on her...

He sighed. If he ever laid servo on her, he would do exactly and precisely what was needed to restore or sustain her health. Possibly without shutting down any pain receptors, but that is what he would do.

Then he looked up and caught the big hopeful optics of Borealis on his. They were red, yes, but the red was already fading. He wondered if they would settle to the clear topaz that he remembered most civilian Seekers having before the war.

He shut away his anger to deal with later.

"We have some options to explore," he said gently. "Are you hungry, or otherwise uncomfortable? It's going to take a while."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Ratchet?" Optimus said with a smile, at the next day's senior staff meeting. "You get to go first today."

"All right. Our newest refugee, Borealis by designation, is several orn, two to three months, from separating three healthy newspark eggs. One Seeker would never carry all three sparklings under normal conditions. She's also small for a Seeker, and the other genitors are not. Those factors together put her at risk for an unsuccessful separation. She will require close monitoring.

"Because she is a Seeker, I've asked the Wreckers to finish quarters for her that not only give her a view of the sky, but so long as she is still able to fly for short periods, a place to land and take off. I asked Flareup to accompany her to the airfield later today, so that she can scan an alt for later; it's inadvisable for her to transform this late in a problematic carrying. She accepted the file for human-interaction protocols, so she won't be stepping on anybody.

"The good news is that she managed to bring with her not only her own energon cubes and those of her trinemates, but small caches of several other supplies we have been very short on, and some of those are not medical but strategic." He nodded to Prowl, whose short report confirmed that.

Ratchet continued, "As her separation date approaches, all of the bot medical staff will rotate through sleeping in the quarters next to Borealis'. She seems eager to assimilate, and has indicated willingness to teach our Seekers more of that culture than we can." Ratchet smiled. "My experience of those who carry is that while they may be willing, their physical resources are reduced: they're tired all the time. It might be wise to assign someone to work with Borealis on a consistent basis, just...overseeing. If something needs to be rescheduled because our refugee has tired unexpectedly, for instance, it would be that bot's task to reschedule."

Ironhide stirred. "Ah'd like to nominate Arcee for that," he said. "She ain't talked about anything but Borealis since Flareup met her."

"Is anyone aware of another bot who would be a suitable candidate?" Optimus asked. Silence ensued.

"Prowl, post that opportunity, please. We should open it basewide, though Arcee has the inside track," he smiled at Ironhide. "But she needs backup. —Do we have any more news regarding Borealis?"

Prowl stirred. "Concerning her, but not regarding her. The protesters are active again."

"The protesters have their knickers in a twist over another refugee's presence," Graham said shortly. "I've doubled the guard."

Optimus nodded, and said, "The protesters will have to get used to it."

This was, for Optimus Prime, very blunt. Blinks and shuttered optics ran around the table.

He smiled and continued, "I hope that she will be the first of a number of refugees to take shelter among us. All but active, committed Decepticons will be welcomed."

Optimus paused, and reading his frame language they waited for the deadpan joke. It arrived: "I wonder if we should advise Mr. Najantdahl to lay in extra supplies of Pepto-Bismol for our friends outside the gates."

Some, not all, of the humans present snorted a laugh. The bots shuttered again.

Among them, Prowl was first to recover: "I have been considering the establishment of a small listening post and science station on the moon. With the presence of the Aerialbots, and now Borealis, it would be within our reach, with careful energon management, once Borealis no longer needs the energon produced by the large cubes which she brought with her. If the humans wish, we could create a habitat for both species. Therefore, they would have an incentive to assist in the construction and supply of the outpost. New refugees could first be brought there, then come here among a returning outpost crew with much less fanfare. We might in this way avoid some of the sideshow atmosphere. More importantly, our sensor range would be extended greatly once outside the planet's atmosphere."

Lennox asked, "Prowl, what's the likelihood that Strika and her group will come after Borealis right away?"

Prowl instantly calculated the odds, but he was learning that rattling off numbers was not what the human wanted to hear, so he transmitted the numerical glyphs but replied aloud, "Rather low, I believe. For one thing, I doubt that they know where Borealis has gone to ground. During her debriefing, she confirmed that she had made a very creative use of the space bridges that brought her here." He made that file available to the others, and continued, "Should they find her, they may do nothing for a time, simply because Strika has shown herself to be a perceptive strategist. Her most likely course of action will be to capitalize upon the opportunity to have Ratchet bring his greater expertise to bear on Borealis' carrying. Further, I do not consider it likely that Strika will attempt to recover the sparklings until they have matured sufficiently for reformat into adult frames. Ratchet, at what point would that become a plausible threat?"

"It would be possible as soon as the sparklings are ready for their first upgrades, at approximately eight Earth months." The medic shifted. "Very, very bad for the sparklings involved, though. Completely contraindicated in terms of their well-being."

Prowl nodded. "That will not restrain Strika, however. I believe that she will allow us to expend our resources on them, then conduct a tactical analysis to determine if the possibility of a successful raid is worth the projected losses. And all that is, of course, contingent on her finding us. Borealis' creativity in using the space bridges may have safeguarded herself and her sparklings, and us as well; Strika knows where we are, but unless she has an effective intelligence presence on this planet, she may not yet know that Borealis is here."

Jazz sent a few glyphs through their bond. He might not be able to rid the Internet of every fuzzy cell-phone image of Borealis' landing, though he could sabotage them quite effectively. He changed the tags of a few from English into an obscure dialect of Bantu spoken in only twenty villages. A few more were rickrolled; he translated the next group into Sanskrit. Others got captioned using translations of cowboy poetry into Hungarian. The tags of the remainder were left intact, but the images digitally edited into something that looked like topographic maps chili had been spilled on, or possibly the cover shot for a vegan barbecue cookbook.

Then Jazz sat back, happy and fulfilled, watched the page positions on search results plummet, and sent the results to Prowl.

Lennox, totally ignorant of all this, asked, "So, we have roughly a year's breathing room?"

Prowl, after a moment taken to appreciate the new numbers, replied, "Absent radical alteration of the strategic situation within the coming months, probably."

Optimus smiled for the Prowlishness of that statement, and said, "In that case, we might hope to have the lunar base active before she makes her move."

Prowl said, "We can do more than hope, Prime."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The psychiatrist made his way from the offices he was assigned to the main hall of the Jefferson County Courthouse, and thence to the nearest men's room.

He billed Jefferson County by the hour, minimum two. Today was going to be interesting, as he was seeing four clients, all members of the same family.

He had just seen Mary White, his first client, and she was in very deep trouble. He didn't know if she would make it back to the land of the living or not. As she was as destitute as all the other cultists, she couldn't afford the help she desperately needed...and even if she could, that help might not be sufficient. In the end, patients healed themselves, and it was his job only to show the way; he had deep misgivings that Mary White had the will to take that way once it was shown her.

In cases like hers, medication was minimally effective, and often the side effects were only an added misery for the patient.

The late and completely unlamented Reverend Dowling had a brother who suddenly owned a large property and a sizeable quantity of livestock. Finding himself enriched, he had pulled up stakes and taken over the property the moment CSI cleared out, and was said to be giving tours at five bucks a head.

The shrink sighed, and headed back to his office. With every new development in the Eastland case, it seemed to get uglier. He wondered if the brother would eventually have to have the property exorcised.

In his waiting room, a young teenaged boy sat next to a slight silver-haired (and silver-eyed: the shrink had never seen that combo before) woman who appeared to be in her early twenties—until he looked closer at those oddly-colored eyes. No one in their twenties had eyes that knowing, not even the victims of prolonged abuse.

"Shad White?" he said, and the boy stood. "I'm Dr. Louis. And you are—?" he asked the woman.

"I am Diarwen ni Gilthanel," she said, standing and presenting her identification. "I am a civilian contractor with the US Army, detailed to NEST's Mission City Base. I've been assigned as Shad's guard."

"Why does he need a guard?"

"It is my job, sir, to be certain that he does not," the woman said, in that way government agents had of not-actually-telling you you didn't have the clearance to know. That thousand-yard stare fixed on him, as this woman who, whatever she was, clearly was not an ordinary civilian, ascertained for herself if he was one of those possible threats to her charge. He hoped he looked innocent and harmless.

Her mufti both was and wasn't exactly civilian clothing. For some reason he was reminded of the clothing of knights not in armor wore at Renaissance Faires: tunic and leggings in a soft supple material, mid-calf boots of very good leather, if he was any judge, and a large-ish canvas-and-leather shoulder bag of equal quality.

So: she had sufficient rank to be able to afford these things. Her slight accent seemed Irish; surely not American-born?

But she was not his patient. As the body language between them raised no red flags for Dr. Louis, he transferred his attention to Shad.

"Well, Shad, if you're ready, will you come this way?" Dr. Louis said, and made a motion toward his office.

The woman said, "One moment, if you please. I need to ascertain that the area is safe for Shad to enter."

Dr. Louis summoned up all of his equanimity (mostly because he knew he would lose this argument, and he intensely disliked having to begin a session late), and said, "Please, do what you need to," and unlocked the door, standing aside for the woman to enter.

Her scrutiny of the therapeutic setting provided by Jefferson County was brief but intense: she twitched open the curtains and looked behind them, opened the desk drawers and felt inside them, inspected the bookcases and peered behind them, and felt under the seat of the good doctor's own chair and the patient seating as well. She also stirred the contents of the wastebasket, then straightened and nodded at the doctor. "Shad, I shall be in the waiting room. I am going to wash my hands first, however."

"All right," the boy said.

"This way, Shad," the doctor said, gesturing to the chair opposite the one he liked to use. He sat down, pulled the pen from his suit-jacket pocket, and wrote Shad's name at the top of a yellow legal pad. The waters of the therapeutic environment closed over his and his patient's head.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen ni Gilthanel, upon returning to the waiting room, played Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook, took a call from Jazz, played a party game and smiled to surpass Monique's score, winning a treasure-trove of coins for them both, had a brief chat with the Tiny Trine, another with Mikaela, and beat the hard keystone, gaining enough experience to level up again.

She wished she'd brought a book. But the trip was to be very short, everyone (mostly Optimus) assured her: rescue Jolt and the child, and return to Mission City. Probably not more than an overnight trip, everyone (mostly Optimus) assured her. Certainly not more than two days, mostly-Optimus said.

She had a change of clothes but made a Note to Self to buy some more, and varied, outfits; her usual tunic and leggings had definite social limitations in tiny Festus. Diarwen did not wish to be memorable as either a refugee from the middle ages, or someone stuck in whenever it was tunics and leggings had last been in fashion.

And she made another Note to Self never to pack for less than a week, even if the sponsors of a trip signed a contract guaranteeing that said trip would not last longer than two days in their own circulatory fluid, whether that be blood, energon, or ichor.

Tiring of Bejewelled for the moment, she was about to see if Wonderlines was still available, when the door opened and two teenage girls, accompanied by a very plain, hard-faced woman, entered the waiting room.

Diarwen gave Judith and Atarah White the swiftest of cursory glances, and returned her attention to her datapad. The matronly woman, seated between the two girls, pulled out a paperback; the two girls stared straight ahead of themselves, hands folded in their laps. They wore clean ankle-length dresses without any ornamentation, and their long hair spilled unconfined down their backs.

Diarwen returned to her data pad, feeling pity for them.

She finished two levels of the game before she felt the pressure of eyes, and looked up to find the young women staring at her.

The younger girl said, "You're with that thing, aren't you?"

Diarwen, who had never been anyone's mother, felt a hot blossom of anger open in her chest on Shad's behalf. "I am indeed, he is not a _thing_ any more than you are, and I will not permit you to be cruel to him when he must walk past you on his way out of here."

"What can _you_ do about it?" Atarah White sneered at her.

"Whatever I must to protect a child, even from another child."

Atarah burst into tears at being called a child.

Judith shut her eyes, and blinked them open again. Diarwen watched a fifteen-year-old girl leave her childhood irrevocably behind in the gesture. Of Micah White's family, Judith had become the only adult survivor; but she too had been overlong in the company of the late Horton Dowling. The girl scowled, and said, "If Shadrach doesn't wish decent people to look down upon him, he should choose another lifestyle."

Diarwen said coldly, "Your definition of 'decent' is as deficient as your sister's common sense."

Judith looked at the Sidhe, and decided not to pursue a war she knew she would lose. She told Atarah, "I believe we should go wash your face, sister."

The children's services officer never made eye contact with Diarwen, nor did anything else to exacerbate the already-fraught situation. She just very casually walked to the water fountain and got a drink. When she came back, she took the aisle seat in which Atarah had been sitting, interposing herself between Diarwen and the girls.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Dr. Jarvis Louis forewent his usual bathroom run to make some further notes on Shad, once the boy had left the office with his redoubtable escort.

"Subject appears to be entering, or perhaps in the first stages of, puberty. The latter is supported by his description of coming to understand his sexuality; Shad says that did not happen more than a week before David Grybowski's murder. Subject appears well-grounded in reality, is worried about a dog given him by another child at the compound. His story is so frankly incredible that therapist would have had great difficulty believing it if extensive documentation from other sources did not exist. That Shad White still remains grounded in reality, still has concern for another beyond himself (in fact several such: his mother, his uncle, his sisters, the girl who gave him the dog, and the dog itself) demonstrates that he will put this behind him, more than likely, and move on into adulthood with some scarring, but minimal negative impact on his life."

Yes, Dr. Louis thought, closing his iPad, Shad's was going to be a success story. He could only hope that the boy's sisters would do as well, but there, he was less hopeful. They did not have a Diarwen ni Gilthanel on their side.

On the other hand, he thought, opening the door, they had, as Shad did, one James White.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Borealis was rather surprised that the part of her personality which seemed to have been a direct conduit to the Unmaker had moved out of her frame once she left Darkmount.

Had she spoken to Boggs, she might have understood that she had put right the terrible misstep of bonding to spark-split twins who swore fealty to Strika. The trine bond still remained, but it had stretched nearly to the breaking point and would eventually, slowly unravel without harm to any of them. If the bond had been true in the first place, it would not have proven so fragile. Her life was hers again, and those of her sparklings would be theirs. Therefore the Unmaker, deprived of the conduit of unhappiness, had moved on.

She was still quite uncomfortable. It's very unlikely that any female of any birth-giving species in any galaxy has ever enjoyed the last stretch of pregnancy; the house gets crowded, as it were, and the original occupant suffers quite a bit of discomfort through sharing.

Ratchet's news regarding her multiple roommates had not been particularly good when he saw her earlier that morning. "Each of the newsparks will need to be monitored separately. It's likely I'll separate them individually, the largest and strongest as soon as it is safe to do so, leaving the others in place to continue their development. That will give them all the best shot at survival."

"That's fine. If it's best for them, that is what I want to do."

Ratchet smiled at her. "Good. That makes it simpler for your medic, too. —I also have a request from the Guardian of our own Seekerlets: they would like to visit you, and Barricade, their Guardian, would like to know if you will teach them Seeker culture and traditions. We have a Conservator among us, but she also is not a Seeker."

Borealis blinked at him. "Their Guardian is not a Seeker?"

"Their Guardian, who is a grounder and with whom they have formed a cohort, was assigned to care for them just before the Battle of Chicago. He kept them safe through that, but when one of them needed medical care he couldn't provide, he surrendered to Optimus to get it for her."

Borealis' optics spiralled wide.

Ratchet donned his wily old bag of sprockets hat and left it there for her to think about. He'd never met any Seeker raised in that culture who didn't feel contempt for grounders. Borealis would have a bit of work to do around that if she wished to be welcomed among Optimus' community, all grounders beyond the Tiny Trine—who _hadn't_ been raised in that culture.

Not knowing that, Borealis finished her cube of energon. She had brought six with her, her own personal stash and those of her trinemates, so she was largely self-sufficient in the matter of energon; a good thing, as this group was short on it, and a carrier required a great deal if her sparklings were to develop properly. She got a little extra from the Autobots, but only in the form of supplements, most of which she had brought with her.

She rose to place her cube on the windowsill, and look out on this organic world. One of the Prime's bots, a femme named Arcee, had commed her, saying she had been asked to work with Borealis, to ease her transition; this Arcee was due shortly.

Borealis' quarters were bare. She had a computer, a desk, a chair, a berth, and not much of anything else. Her personal belongings, mementos mostly, were stacked neatly in one corner. She hadn't the energy, at the moment, to deal with them; more worrying for a Seeker was that she had no symbols of status with which to arm herself by striking awe into a grounder.

So when Arcee pinged her, Borealis had her armor straightened, but not tightened, which she mostly couldn't any more anyway, and she and her quarters were what they were. She sent the code to open the door.

Arcee, who came only to her elbow, sent glyphs of identification, greeting, and welcome: but not Seeker-speak, and not with the slight deference to which Borealis was accustomed from grounders.

Realizing that she would not again have that deference shown her, nor hear her first language until her sparklings were old enough to upload it, Borealis burst into tears.

Arcee, instead of reacting with the hastily-veiled contempt of a Seeker-enslaved grounder, rushed to her, fields filled with compassion. She said, "Oh, my dear, this must be very hard for you," led Borealis to the single chair in the apartment, sat her down in it, and unsubspaced the bot equivalent of a tissue.

A human might have made tea. Arcee stood next to the sobbing Borealis and sent wave after wave of compassion flowing over her.

And that, while it did not solve all or even any of Borealis' problems, was her introduction to grounders as persons of equality to her Seeker self.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

When, the morning after their sodden-tissue introduction, Arcee pinged for entrance to Borealis' quarters, the Seeker sent glyphs of welcome and opened the door. This time, Arcee was accompanied by Barricade, Flareup, and the Tiny Trine.

Borealis expected them, and welcomed them calmly. She hadn't expected Sideswipe, who had cheerfully invited himself, and stood smiling behind Barricade. Skimmer and Stormy each perched on one of the tall frontliner's shoulders.

Borealis sent glyphs of welcome of varying degrees: wholesparked to Arcee, warm to Flareup, polite to Barricade, wholesparked (fellow-Seeker sparkling variety) to the Tiny Trine, and "Welcome, but WTF are you doing here?" to Sideswipe.

Sideswipe, whose attitude toward those who did not like him was that they simply did not know yet how charming he was, but he would show them, smiled at her, sent glyphs of respectful greetings, and got the sparklings dismounted. By that time Barricade had also put Song down.

Song went right to Borealis, not waiting even for her brothers, and said, "Are you a Seeker like us?"

Borealis squatted, to bring herself down to the sparkling's level, which was both not easy and a blessed relief, as it moved the gestation chamber off some structures it had previously been oppressing. "Yes, I am."

"Cade-cade says you got sparklings like us inside you."

"Yes, I do. Three of them."

Skimmer said excitedly, "A trine just like us!"

Borealis smiled at him. "Almost exactly like you."

Stormy said, "When they get bigger, can they fly with us?"

"Of course," Borealis said.

Skimmer said, "Can _you_ fly with us? Now?"

Borealis said, "I'd like to sit down in my chair while we talk about that. Can we do that?"

"Yes!" all three chirped in unison, and arranged themselves in a semicircle in front of the chair.

Borealis found herself unable to rise from her squat. The tall frontliner was Sides-on-the-spot with a proffered servo, however, and Borealis sent thanks to him: the careful thanks of a Seeker rewarding the appropriate action of a lesser being.

She didn't see Arcee's optics narrow, and not only at the implied slight. But Flareup did.

Borealis waddled to the chair, and seated herself. Sides sat cross-legged beside Flareup and Barricade; Skimmer claimed his "twin's" lap. Stormy chose Barricade's and Song went to Borealis, reached her tiny servos up, and waited.

Arcee said, "Let me help you, Song. That's hard for Borealis right now."

"Because of your Tiny Trine?" Song said, turning her little face up to Borealis' from her seat on the green bot's thigh plating.

'Yes," Borealis said. "And flying is hard too. Right now, I get tired when I've only flown for two breem. That's not very long."

"I can fly for...how long can I fly for, Cade-cade?" Skimmer said, from Sideswipe's lap.

"I've seen you fly for six or seven breem at a time. All of you," Barricade said. "And Song, you can fly for longer than that in your frame, I know."

"You fly in a frame?" Borealis said, quite surprised: and without any trace of disapproval at all. Song's little being did not permit that, not without great shame on the part of the perpetrator.

Song ran her tiny digits over the place where green met lighter green on Borealis' paint. "Yeah. When I was little my wings got hurted, so one of the humans—his designation's 'Chip'—he told Ratchet 'n' Wheeljack to make me a frame to fly in, so I wouldn't be so sky-hungry. The humans have them too. They can't fly without one."

Borealis had no eyebrows, but they would have gone up if she had. "The entire species..."—she bit back "are grounders"—"is unable to fly?"

"Yes," Song said cheerfully, without a trace of disapproval or superiority, "they're all grounders. Even Dr. Parker, who flies with us in her frame. Even Diarwen! She don't fly at all, but she's pretty neat. She can make fire, _and_ she's been makin' books for us to read in real Cybertronian."

Quietly, Borealis' world revolved vertically upon its axis: turned completely upside down.

"Diarwen's not really a human, she says, but she's a grounder like our twins Sideswipe an' Sunstreaker!" Stormy said, and grinned up at his Guardian. (The eyebrows Borealis did not have were getting a real workout.) "An' Cade-cade an' Flareup! They're all grounders! But we aren't! And you aren't!"

"No, I'm not. And I'm looking forward to flying with you. But could we talk about that for a little bit?"

"Yes!" piped three small voices. If you weren't flying, talking about flying was the next best thing to do. Though still second by a very long shot, of course.

"Well," said Borealis, "I told you that I can't fly for very long. I also can't fly very late in the day, because I get too tired. So if we can set a time"—she glanced at Arcee—"early in the second joor, I think, then I could fly with you for a little while: only about two breem."

"Is that all?" said Stormy. "I wish it could be longer."

Oh so hard to deny that little blue face. "I do too, Stormy. But maybe in that time, I can show you some Seeker flying techniques that no one else here knows. And I need to talk to Ratchet about flying, so we won't be able to fly tomorrow, because that's when I see him, but if he okays it we can fly the next day. If we can't I'll let you know right away. If I can't fly myself, I might be able to borrow my flyer back, and if I can I can fly longer."

The folk who inhabit Area 51 during working hours would wring their hands and wail if she asked for it back. But after losing both the Pretender frames and the crash debris to Hastings' machinations (though they were unaware of that), they didn't have a lot of credibility with Mearing, or with the Prime.

Wheeljack, in fact, was presently lecturing to a group of them beside her flyer, and had just shown them a function common to Cybertronian flying frames but far beyond present Earth capabilities. This occasioned saving a video clip on his part, because organic engineers were so damned _cute_ when they made jealous-of-Transformerface.

End Part 13


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimers in Part 1

The next morning, Ratchet, having done what medics do, listened with his helm cocked to one side to Borealis' request to go flying with the Tiny Trine. "All right," he said finally, "on one condition."

"Certainly," Borealis said. "What is it?"

"I'll see Song later today, and then I will lay down some ground rules for the Trine to fly with you. Not too close, and not too fast, and they are not to play air tag with you. They are very far from being bad kids," he said, or something like it, "but they're young. They don't think too far ahead. So not too close and not too fast ought to cover it."

"At least for the first time," she agreed. "They like to fly with Dr. Parker, though I haven't met her yet. I was thinking of asking her to come along."

"This first time, that might be a good idea. She's a stabilizing influence on those young hellions in the air." He smiled at his patient. "And I can fix the fact that you don't know her yet. Come along."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Friday morning dawned gray, and a cold wind was whistling around the eaves of the motel. Diarwen groaned and got up, quickly showered, dressed, and made her bed. That last wasn't necessary, she knew, but it was a habit she seemed unable to break.

Both she and Shad had grown tired of the deli at the market next door. Thursday, Jolt located an organic market in St. Louis, and they had gone exploring, ending the trip with a grocery run.

There were other things too...that morning, Shad said, "Ma'am, do you have a bowl you could use to cut my hair?"

So Jolt found a barbershop that accepted walk-in customers, and Shad had his first professional haircut.

There was a tiny local department store in Festus as well. Shad needed extra clothing—jeans and tee shirts for around the hotel, dress slacks, shirt, and tie for court.

Diarwen had quietly purchased the jacket that went with the pants for the funeral, and put it in with the two pairs of jeggings and long shirts that she had bought for herself.

Back at the hotel, she had introduced Shad to the guest laundromat. Clean clothes were always an improvement, if not a comfort. And he had asked how to keep up with his lessons; she'd let him use her datapad, and he'd spent half the night reading.

This morning, after groaning herself out of bed, Diarwen set out home-baked muffins, and scrambled some eggs in the microwave. A jar of elderberry jam added some interest to the muffins. That and milk made a nice breakfast for her. But as she had expected, once he knocked at her door Shad was too nervous to eat the big farmhouse breakfast that he was used to. She set out to put him at ease, and succeeded well enough to get him to eat a muffin and a nice serving of eggs, and to drink two glasses of milk.

She suspected he would get hungry later, and locked her herb box in the room's safe to make room in her shoulder bag for leftover muffins. They'd have lunch out, most likely, as there was no way to tell how long the wheels of the judicial process would grind.

It was chilly but not raining when they finished eating. Jolt took them and Shankie to the riverfront to let the dog run for a while; as sheepdogs will, he made his own entertainment by trying to herd ducks.

No, Diarwen thought, laughing with Shad at the sight, sheepdogs weren't meant for small hotel rooms, and Shankie needed to get out and romp: a sedate hygienic walk was not going to cut it for him.

Shad, being thirteen, wasn't hard to coax into throwing sticks for the dog to chase once the ducks evaded Shankie.

Diarwen watched them learning to play together, and wondered if Shad had ever been allowed to play. Probably not since he had turned four, old enough to be of use in running the farm.

Her phone chirped an alarm. Reluctantly, she called, "Shad! We need to take Shankie back to the hotel if we are to get to court on time."

He whistled, and the dog came back, dropping his stick in favor of herding two very out-of-sorts ducks. He was very puzzled when Shad made him leave them by the river, and yipped once as they made their escape into the water.

Back at the hotel, Diarwen helped Shad with his tie. She was amazed that so many men had trouble with the things, since they were the ones who invented them.

Shad caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and did a double-take. With his new haircut and dressy clothes, he no longer looked like a homeschooled farm kid. He scowled, not sure he wanted to lose yet another part of the life he had been sure was his.

Diarwen smiled at his reflection, and said, "You look fine, lad. You clean up very nicely."

"I'm not used to seeing that in the mirror, that's all." He shrugged and put on his plain brown farm jacket, and Diarwen wrapped her shawl around her shoulders.

Just as Jolt opened his doors for them, it started to rain.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Shad and Diarwen dashed into the courthouse through a downpour. The courtroom was already filling. They made their way to their seats. Five minutes later Mr. Ogilvie arrived, and put a wet umbrella in a container beside the door to shake water off his briefcase before joining them.

A few minutes after Ogilvie's arrival, the Whites came in, along with James' attorney, and another lawyer who sat with Judith in the row of chairs behind the rest of their group. Diarwen saw no signs of acrimony there. On the contrary, they leaned forward to converse with the rest of the family.

Once the court came to order, Judge McBray said, "I understand there is another motion to consider before we continue?"

Judith and her lawyer stood. The lawyer said, "I'm Teresa Stiles, and I'll be representing Judith White. If it please the court, Ms. White moves for emancipation."

The bailiff took those papers and brought them to the bench. The judge accepted them and said, "I understand that you're all in a very difficult situation here. It is the wish of this court to settle these matters in a way that will be in the best interests of the children involved, and in a way that will give each of you the best possible chance to reconcile with other family members at some point in the future once the grief and anger of this terrible loss has had time to heal. I will be speaking to each of you in chambers now. I'll ask the rest of you to wait patiently, because this is a very important part of the process. These conversations are more informal than the proceedings held in open court, but your attorneys may accompany you if you wish. This court will recess for ten minutes while I have a chance to review the documents I've just received. Then I will begin seeing you individually without returning to the bench. Judith White, you will be first, and I'll send the bailiff to conduct you to my chambers."

"Yes, your honor."

"Thank you. Please be seated."

Soon the bailiff came out for Judith, who brought her attorney with her, and stopped briefly to put her hand on her mother's shoulder. Hesitant fingers came up to touch hers, then Judith straightened and followed the lawyer into the judge's chambers.

She was gone about ten minutes.

Shad was next. He was gone an equal length of time, and when he returned, Diarwen could see that his aura had settled a great deal since this morning.

They waited while the judge interviewed the rest of the family, a process that took another hour or so. Mary accounted for most of it. The judge walked her to the door of her chambers because she was in tears, and handed her over to the bailiff in that way one shepherds the very old or very fragile. The bailiff took her back to her seat, where Judith wrapped a crocheted shawl around Mary's shoulders. Atarah, who had preceded her into the judge's chambers, took one of her mother's hands in both of hers.

James and his lawyer went back last, and then the judge declared an hour's recess while she deliberated.

Shad asked, "Can we walk around some?"

All three of them went out in the hall; James and the others stayed in their seats.

There was a news stand in the courthouse lobby. They acquired cartons of cold milk, and a coffee for Mr. Ogilvie, to go with the muffins that Diarwen had brought with her.

Diarwen asked quietly, "How do you think it is going?"

Shad said, "I don't know. She asked me a lot of questions about how I was feeling, if I was mad at mom and my sisters, or Uncle James. What I was going to do about school. I told her I wasn't mad at them, but I didn't want to be in the same house with Tara if she was going to try to strangle me. And I told her I wanted to keep taking the same online classes I always have, if I can, and she didn't seem to think that would be a problem. What did you think, Mr. Ogilvie?"

"I think she's going to make her decision based on what she hears from all of you, Shad. I do know that Judge McBray has always been fair every time I've argued a case in her courtroom. She's really smart, too, so she'll figure out a way that's best for all of you."

Shad nodded, reassured to have his opinion of her confirmed.

Ogilvie asked Shad, "Do you play any kind of sports?"

"Kind of. We'd play basketball, sometimes baseball, and shooting contests—see who could shoot the most cans off the fence, or something like that. I like to hunt and fish, fishing more than hunting."

"What's the biggest fish you ever caught?"

Shad spun a tale of a channel catfish which required two grown men to help him wrestle out of the Mississippi. Shad counted it as "caught" because they got it up onto the bank before it knocked them over and escaped back into the Big Muddy.

Ogilvie replied with a catfish story of his own, which ended with, "I think you should be glad that one got away, Shad. The bigger they are, the muddier they taste, and the more there is to eat of them!"

Shad laughed. Diarwen had not heard him do that before.

Muffins consumed, they went to the nearest door to check on the possibility of a walk, but it was still raining. Not so hard as it had been, but big soaking drops, enough to discourage them. No one wanted to return to the courtroom looking like a drowned rat.

Ogilvie took advantage of the break to call his office. Diarwen and Shad wandered around the lobby for a while, then sat down to wait. Eventually the bailiff came out and got them. "Judge McBray is ready to render her decision now."

Everyone found their places in the courtroom.

Judge McBray said, "As a family court judge here in Jefferson County for the last nineteen years, and as a circuit court judge for five years before that, I've seen a lot of human misery pass through my courtroom. But this case is one of the most tragic. Let me begin by saying that I am sorry for your loss. You are all here through no fault of your own, but rather because Micah White, a good citizen, a soldier, a wonderful husband and father, was taken from you by a madman." She waited, her eyes on Atarah until the young woman dropped her own and first Judith, then James, began to bristle. Then she continued. "In the wake of that tragedy, you are left with starting new lives. That's never easy even when it's by choice. It can seem an insurmountable task when it's not.

"It's my duty to help you sort out that new beginning, and that's what I hope to have done.

"Judith White, the Family Court of Jefferson County, Missouri hereby grants your petition for emancipation. From now on, in all matters except those for which a minimum age has been specified by law, you are an adult in the eyes of the state of Missouri. As you and your mother have asked, she may now grant you a power of attorney for medical matters, and you may serve as the executor of her will."

Judith said, "Thank you, your honor."

"Mrs. White, please do not burden your newly adult daughter with either of those tasks for as long as possible."

"Yes, your honor," Micah White's widow said listlessly.

Judge McBray was as little fooled as Diarwen by that response. "In the matter of the minor children Atarah White and Shadrach White, sole legal custody is granted to James White. Physical custody of Atarah White shall be shared between James White and Mary White. Sole physical custody of Shadrach White shall be granted to James White.

'This court mandates counseling for both Shadrach and Atarah White, to continue for a period of six months, at which time the court will review the order." She tapped her gavel, closing the case.

They left the courtroom in two distinct groups. James took Atarah on ahead, but Mary and Judith remained behind in the hall to speak with Shad.

Mary said, "I'm sorry, Shad. I wish I could be the mother you deserve, but I can't."

"I know, Mom," her son said. He opened his arms to his mother, but she didn't move toward him. He dropped his hands, and said, "It isn't your fault."

"It isn't anyone's fault." Mary said the words of forgiveness, though her aura said the exact opposite.

Diarwen understood, although she wished for Shad's sake that this was not Mary's truth: his mother was releasing Shad, taking care of unfinished business for both of them in the time remaining to her.

Judith said, "Don't worry about us, Shad. We'll be all right with Uncle James."

"Thanks, Judy. Don't worry about me either. I'll land on my feet."

"I hope you have a good life."

"You too. You deserve to be happy. Don't get so wrapped up feeling sad that you let a chance to be happy get away, if it shows up."

Awkwardly, Judith held out her hand, and Shad shook it.

"Goodbye. Good luck."

"Good luck to you, too, Judy. Bye."

Shad hesitated, giving his mother the chance to say something, but she didn't look at him; never would again, though he had no way to know that.

He turned and walked away between Diarwen and Mr. Ogilvie.

When they returned to the parking lot, the rain had ceased, all but a light drizzle. Shad asked, "What happens now?"

The lawyer said, "Nothing more. I'll talk to your uncle about the papers you will need to take to Nevada with you. Once those have been signed, you'll be free to go. The court will also send you paperwork to have your counselor fill out. You need to go to counseling as per the court order—if you don't, you and your uncle can both be held in contempt of court."

"I don't have money to pay for that."

"That's your uncle's responsibility. There's a sliding scale for court-mandated counseling; that means they charge based on how much money you have."

Diarwen said, "There is a very good child psychologist at the base, Shad. She is a very kind, caring lady. I am sure that her services will fulfill the requirements of the court."

"That's good. I don't want to get in any trouble with that judge. She's nice, but I'll bet she can be really strict if people don't do what she says."

"That she can," Ogilvie said, and grinned. "She bends over backward to be just as well as kind. She gets _real_ annoyed when she's done the work and gets thwarted."

Unlike some complete jackasses in a black robe he knew of, who got annoyed for no reason anybody could fathom.

Shad, polite child that he was, said, "Mr. Ogilvie, thank you for everything. I've never been in court before, and I wouldn't have had any idea what to do."

"You can thank Director Mearing, Shad, and when you do so thank her for me, too. Good luck. And if you're ever back in Missouri and need any help with anything, here's my card. Will you do something for me, Shad?"

"If I can."

"Study hard. Do something fantastic with your life. Remember, living well is the best revenge."

Shad quirked a half-smile. "I'll do my best."

Diarwen thought he would keep that promise. If, through the thin walls of the motel that night she heard him cry himself to sleep, it seemed in no way to lessen Shad's possibilities.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Skimmer, come on. Stop playing with your food."

Skimmer swirled his cube of energon yet again, and didn't drink it. Barricade said patiently, _very_ patiently, "I've had to drag up the last shred of restraint I have here, will you _get on with it_, please" patiently, "Come on, buddy. You know we're meeting Borealis to go flying with her this morning. You know, because Ratchet told you, that she gets tired fast while she's carrying. Drink your energon, and let's go. We're already late, but maybe not too late to fly with her."

Skimmer continued, and in fact intensified, his dawdle.

Flareup said, "The kids and I will go on ahead."

Skimmer's little yellow helm snapped around. "No you won't! You're not supposed to go without me!"

Flareup said patiently, "Skimmer, Borealis is waiting for you. You're late already, and by the time you've finished your energon and gone to her, you'll be very late. That's rude. As a member of their cohort, I choose not to allow Stormy and Song to be rude, so we're going to leave." She reached her servos down to the littles and said to Barricade, "See you in a bit."

Skimmer continued to sulk, watching the twinkles energon made in a cube when it was swirled around and not drunk.

Finally, twenty-two human minutes later, after a total delay of five breem, he drank the energon and said, "I'm ready."

Barricade put the cube in the sunshine, and opened the door to their quarters. Skimmer shot out like a small yellow arrow, airborne by the time he passed the door, to join the others circling over Borealis' quarters as quickly as he could.

That really wasn't fast enough. Two human minutes later, Borealis landed, done for the day.

Barricade arrived on Borealis' balcony in time to hear Flareup apologize to the green Seeker for the young Winglord's tardiness, but to his surprise, Borealis said, "No, it's all right."

Flareup, as surprised as Barricade, left to collect Song from Dr. Parker.

Hot Rod was present on a much flimsier excuse ("I haven't met her yet") than Sideswipe's ("Can I come over and play with the sparklings?") had been. Arcee had rolled her eyes when he oh-so-casually intercepted them this morning. What _was _it about this gravid little Seeker-femme that drew the big strapping frontliners to her like glitchmice to spilled energon?

Borealis, who did not have the answer to that herself, smiled and sat down in the patio chair newly Wrecker-made for her at Flareup's insistence. Not that it took much insisting, since Ratchet and Wheeljack had happily collaborated on design, with the result that it was a very comfortable chair indeed.

Parker dipped her wings in salute and led Song to the hangar, where Flareup waited for her, and Stormy and Skimmer landed, the latter with a flourish of yellow plating and a face like thunder.

"How come you didn't wait for me?" he said to Borealis, courtesy much in absence.

"Skimmer!" Barricade said, displeasure in his tone.

But Borealis raised a servo. ::Don't reprimand him,:: she sent, to both Flareup and Barricade. ::Seeker coding demands that Seekers who haven't sworn fealty wait on the Winglord, not the other way around.:: She also sent a particular request to Arcee.

Barricade shuttered his optics, but made no further protest. Borealis reached down to take Skimmer's servo into her own, and said, "I'm sorry, Skimmer, but even waiting for a Winglord can't give me extra energy, which I would have needed to continue flying without hurting my babies."

"Oh!" Skimmer said. "They told me I was Winglord, but I don't know what that means, really, outside of the fact that I'm supposed to act like somebody other bots can look up to. Sometimes, that's hard."

Borealis sent, ::You're doing a really good job of raising them:: to both Barricade and Flareup, just arriving with Song in tow.

Aloud, she said, "Well, that's certainly part of it. I'd like to tell you some more about being a Seeker, and show you the songs and dances, as well as the flights. Some of them you already know, because they're coded in your Seeker-frame programming...like the welcoming flight you did with the Aerialbots. I've seen tapes of that, Skimmer, and you did it just right."

"I just...knew how," Skimmer said, not pridefully but with the statement of a simple fact. "I don't know how I knew, either."

"I knew how too," Stormy added.

"I knew how," Song said. "I wasn't in my flight frame, though, so I couldn't fly it with them."

"I'm sure they understood, Skysong."

Song smiled and shyly hid her faceplates in Cade-Cade's neck.

Borealis said, "Well then, if we're all ready, I'd like to swear fealty to Skimmer. Skimmer, did you know that that is why you were late today?"

"No, I didn't. Okay," Skimmer said. He wondered briefly if "swearing fealty" would hurt, because Ratchet had some awfully odd names for the sometimes-painful things he did for them, then if it would hurt Borealis, and so he said, "If you don't kneel that's fine with me, if you woulda had to."

"Thank you," Borealis said gratefully. "But the truth is, you have to be higher than I am while we do this. It's you who are the leader, and not me, you see. And if you aren't higher, our coding might not be satisfied."

"I wish Sides was here," Skimmer said. "Sides could hold me up. I love you, Cade-cade, but I want my grounder friend to do this."

Barricade swelled with pride. This kid was never going to stop surprising him. "I'll comm him, and see if the Prime can spare him."

"Stupid old Prime," Skimmer sulked.

_Never_ going to stop surprising him. He opened his mouth to reprimand Skimmer, but Borealis said, "Now that's a way of thinking to beware of, Skimmer. Did you know that in the earliest days of our people, when the Primes hadn't really sorted out how to be Primes yet, a Prime who was conducting a particular kind of ceremony had to have a rope tied around his ankle, so that if Primus' power was too much for him and he died, his frame could be recovered? Being a Prime is a difficult and dangerous undertaking, and it is worthy of your respect as Winglord." She watched the optics change, and smiled.

Barricade said, hiding a new-begot respect for both Borealis' and Sideswipe's tactical abilities, "Sideswipe and the Prime are off-base today, Skimmer, and won't be back until much later. He asked me if it would be all right if Hot Rod, who is often Sides' sparring partner, could hold you up."

Skimmer looked askance at Rodi. "You're Sides' friend?" he said. "He and Sunstreaker are our twins."

Rodi squatted to bring himself to Skimmer's level. "Wow, that's cool. Wish I had a twin. But even though I'm not Sides' twin, I'm willing to do this for you now. Or you can wait until Sides gets back. Your choice," he flashed a smile at the adult Seeker, "and Borealis'."

Skimmer made his choice. "Pick me up, please," he said to Rodi.

Rodi tossed him high in the air and settled him with a plop and a squeal of delight (Skimmer's, not his own) onto his shoulders, then knelt in front of a startled Borealis. It did the trick, though; she would have to reach up just a little to Skimmer.

She showed him the palmar surfaces of her servos first, then joined them and held them out to him. As she suspected it might, the coding took over, and Skimmer placed his own much smaller servos outside hers, enclosing them.

She made and held optic contact with the young Winglord. "Starskimmer, the Flock gathers on your wing, and I with it. I ask leave to fly with you, wherever you will lead us. Where you choose to build our eyrie, there I will nest, and raise my sparklings. Should I trine again, I will choose trinemates from among your Flock. I swear my spark to your service, and my talons to your defense, as long as the One grants me wind beneath my wings."

The young Winglord said, "I accept you into my Flock, Borealis of Vos."

"Thank you, Winglord."

Skimmer said, "That's all the programming I have. Is there any more that I need to do?"

"Well, technically no, because all our coding requires is for me to acknowledge you as the Winglord, and for you to accept me into your Flock. But there are some very old customs that it would be best to follow so that other Seekers know we are one Flock." She pointed to Strika's glyph, scratched into the surface of one of her wings, deep enough to remove the chromatophores: it had stayed protoform black even after healing. "It is custom for you to scratch out Strika's glyph and mark me with your own. Any adult Seeker who rallies to your banner will expect to be granted your glyph."

"But won't that hurt?"

"Yes, but sometimes following custom does. And we are _Seekers_. We are stronger than a little discomfort."

Skimmer regarded her doubtfully. "I don't want to mess it up."

"You won't. Show me your glyph."

He scratched it into the sand tray she had asked Arcee to prepare just for this, drawing his brow plates together in concentration.

"See, you didn't mess it up."

"Alright, but if Ratchet gets mad..."

"Judging from Ratchet's accent, he is from somewhere near Vos. I think that he probably already knows about this. If he doesn't I'll tell him. OK?"

"OK."

She dipped her wing. "You need to make the marks deep enough to leave a nice clear black line, so that it will look good when it heals."

Skimmer winced, then popped the sharp claws out from the ends of his talons and quickly scratched through Strika's mark. Beads of blue energon welled up, only to be rapidly resorbed by a Seeker frame designed to waste nothing.

Borealis did not so much as shutter her optics.

Reassured, he went on to scratch his glyph into her plating. She did not wince or shutter, and once he was finished she stretched her wing and craned her helm around to see. "That is excellent, Skimmer," she said, with evident satisfaction. "It's very neat, and it will be nice and clear once it's healed."

"Did it hurt?"

"Oh yes. Just enough to let me know I'm a Seeker."

He processed that. Then he said, "How long does it take to heal?"

"Not very long at all. A few joor for a new surface to form, and perhaps half an orn for the flight surface to fill in and smooth out."

Stormy said, "It took longer than that for my wing to get better."

The eldest Seeker smiled at him. "No wonder! It looks like you peeled off a big piece of mesh. It's a good thing that it adhered back to your protoform, or you would have had a big black spot on your wing."

"That's what Ratchet said. He said I was flying like a glitched cyberbat."

Borealis smiled again, this time at the description. "You may have been, to smack your poor wing into something that way! When you get your grown-up wings, if you hit a surface at speed, you'll do worse than scrape off a little mesh. You could tear a wing right off, and then down you'd go. So you might want to watch your proximity sensors a little more closely."

"Ratchet said that too. An' he said if I tore my wing off, he'd hang me from the ceiling by my peds, because it would be easier to weld my wing back on that way."

"Then you'd better be careful not to fly into things, hmmm?"

All three sparklings nodded, helms bobbing vigorously up and down, every little face set in lines of utmost solemnity. Barricade immediately saved the vid file; they _never_ did that while they were listening to him. The threat posed by Ratchet's attentions was apparently nothing less than awe-inspiring to the small set. (And to the larger set as well, Ratchet would have been pleased to know.)

Borealis said, "I also have a request to make. Do you know Milestrina, the Conservator?"

"Yes!" Song said. "She's really old, but she knows _everything_."

Borealis smiled down at her most ardent admirer. "Well, not quite everything. Not being a Seeker, she doesn't know very much about our traditions, and has asked if she might learn with you. I'd like to say yes. What do you think?"

Skimmer cocked his helm to one side. "Is there anything people who aren't Seekers shouldn't know?"

"You know, Skimmer, I am going to speak with Prime about that. Because there are, or at least there used to be. It may not be a good thing to preserve that tradition, the keeping of secrets I mean. It was one way that Seekers used to convince themselves that they were better than anybot else."

"Better than grounders?"

"Yes."

Skimmer cast Borealis a look of extreme doubt. "Well, that can't be true, because if it was I would be better than Cade-cade, an' nobot is. Not him and not Sideswipe, either, an' they're both grounders."

Song piped up, "An' we'd be better than the Aerialbots, too, and we're not! They can fly better than we can."

Borealis said carefully, "That will change as you grow up a bit. Once you get into your adult frames, it won't be long until you fly better than they do. Seekers were designed, coded, and programmed to fly. No other frametype is as good at that task as we are." She paused, and drove home the lesson. "When you can fly better than the Aerialbots, will that make you better than they are?"

Three small brows crinkled over this conundrum. Finally, Stormy and Skimmer looked at one another, Song cocked her helm to look at both, and said, tentative, "No...because flying's not all you have to do?"

"That's right, but there's another reason too."

Stormy said, "Because no bot is better than any other?"

Borealis committed Seeker heresy when she said, "Yes, that's right, Stormy. Now, would you all like to learn a dance Seekers do on the ground? Then, if it's okay for Milestrina to join us tomorrow or the next day, we can all show her together."

No Seeker likes to forego a chance to show off. "Can't we show her today?" Skimmer asked.

"I would have had to ask her earlier," Borealis said. "She's teaching some other younglings today."

Song raised her little servo.

"Yes, Song?"

"The Aerialbots are a ges...ges...they can get together and make a really big bot. Don't that make them fly better?"

"Yes, because they have that bond even when their _gestalt_ is not combined. Some people say a gestalt bond is almost exactly the same as that between spark-split twins. I was trined with a pair of twins, and when they're in combat they fight as one. I've been told that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are spark-split as well, so perhaps you could ask them what that's like. The Aerialbots' gestalt bond will make them very dangerous to your enemies when they're a little older and more experienced, much more so than their lack of full Seeker programming would indicate."

Skimmer knit his brow. "So...after we grow up, we'll fly better than any of the Aerialbots, but not better than all the Aerialbots flying together."

"Probably," Borealis said, making nothing of it.

"Are there Seeker gestalts?" Stormy said. "Bet they could fly the best of all!"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But I don't know of any, and there are no stories or legends about any. So I don't think Seekers were ever sparked as gestalts."

"What stories are there?" said Song, getting to the heart of the matter.

"There is the story of Fairwinds and Holdstar, and the story of how Fairwinds and Holdstar formed a trine with Stormwing. Which would you like?"

"Was they a trine like us?"

"A trine, yes. Probably not much like you, since they all came from different places to make up their trine."

There was some communication among the Tiny Trine, and then, to the vast amusement of the cycle twins, Barricade, and Hot Rod, they said in unison, "The story of the trine that's not much like us, please."

End Part 14


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimers in Part 1

The trine departed with the story under their belts, so to speak, and Borealis would later find that they spent the day with the plastic soldiers created for them by Wheeljack, with the laughing permission of their several models, NEST personnel specifically referred to by the Tiny Trine as "soldiers." And a few guest stars.

The game was called, "Fairwinds and Holdstar Form a Trine with Stormwing, starring Colonel Lennox and Sideswipe and Monique Epps and Diarwen." The story proved to have multiple chapters: an adventure, three romances, a comedy, a drama, a quarrel, and finally, a nap. All four of the models would have been very surprised at the roles they played; Lennox in particular might have been startled at being the one who had to carry the sparklings.

But that was in the future when Borealis said to Arcee, "I'm going to lie down. I like the littles so much, but they leave me exhausted."

"You're not the only one. Flare tells me the same."

"Does she?" Borealis felt her concentration wandering, and knew Arcee could feel it too. "Beg pardon."

"No problem. Look, you're just tired, right, none of the things Ratchet told us to watch out for?"

"No, none of them, just four bots stuffed into one small frame. Come and talk to me for a bit."

Once they were settled, Borealis reclining on her berth and Arcee having moved the sole chair in the living space into the room with her, Borealis said bluntly, "Look. I'm having trouble learning not to be..." she hesitated. "The humans, I think, would call it racist. Disrespectful of a grounder because they're a grounder. Because that's the way I was brought up, but none of you are like...what I was led to expect."

Arcee nodded. "We all had to deal with that, Borealis. Not necessarily the same prejudice, but the caste system affected everyone. I grew up a laborer, and I hated tower mechs. They'd treat you like you were no better than road plating, and if you said anything back to them they could slag you and no one would do anything about it. And as soon as Flare and I got into adult frames, they assumed we were pleasure bots because we were low caste. If we caught one anywhere near the causeway, we'd kick his aft on general principles. Y'know, they were 'all alike.' Optimus would give us that 'I'm really disappointed in you' look of his if he found out about it, but mostly? Everyone else we knew would have done the same thing.

"Then I met Mirage, and he isn't like that. That was my wake-up call. The system sucked aft, but individual bots weren't responsible for it. We all start out with essentially the same core coding. Ratchet says what makes us different will usually fit on a couple of memory chips. Whatever else you become, somebot has to teach you, and you can unlearn it. I didn't feel so bad about slipping up after Mirage called me a gutterbot or an empty a few times: but he was careful to apologize immediately, and to let me feel that the apology was genuine. I did the same when it was my attitude that was the problem." She shifted a little in the chair. "I guess what I'm saying is, we've all been there. It takes time, effort, and a real willingness to change. You'll get there too." Arcee smiled.

"So it's okay that I am where I am."

"You're working on it, so yes. Y'know, apologize when necessary. I don't know if that's a big thing for Seekers or not, but it's not among us. We screw up, we apologize, we probably do what we have to to put it right if that's possible, and we move on."

Borealis fidgeted. "It's a bigger issue among Seekers. With us, apology lowers your standing within the Flock. I'm going to talk to Ratchet about that to see if he can edit the coding, if that's what at fault. If not, more work to do. But I wanted to talk to you about Hot Rod and Sideswipe too."

Arcee forced herself to relax, though she knew she was physically close enough to Borealis for the other bot to read her fields. "I kind of wondered about that situation myself. What _is_ it about you and the big strapping frontliners?"

Borealis smiled. "Don't know. I think I'd get that coding edited too."

And Arcee, in spite of herself, laughed. "Okay. What about them? They're both decent mechs, so far as I know. Sides probably has a little more growing up to do than Rodi does."

"Oh...I found out I needed to apologize to you for poaching on your turf. Not with Rodi; that attraction's not going anywhere if I have anything to say about it. I didn't realize you and Sides had an understanding."

"It's complicated. We're both twins, so it's _really_ complicated. I don't think he meant anything by it, but Sides is, well, he doesn't always think ahead, you know. He never means any harm."

"Mechs."

"Yep." And "doesn't always think ahead" was putting it mildly, Arcee thought. She was waiting for Sides to grow up a bit, since she was older than he by a couple of vorn. The way things were going, it probably wouldn't take more than a decavorn, or most of what humans called a "millenium."

As for Rodi and Borealis... the young bot had settled so much since being told he was a Prime candidate that he seemed several vorn Sides' senior, when in fact the reverse was true. And as Arcee knew how stubborn Wreckers were, she was going to wait and see...but her money was on Rodi with that one.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Skimmer alternately paced and flew around outside the medbay doors, his fields in an uproar. Optimus knelt and offered his wrist for the young Winglord to land. "What is wrong, mechling?"

"I done a _bad _thing."

"What did you do?"

"I told Borealis to show me a flying maneuver one more time after she wanted to land, and she did, and it made her tummy hurt. Why did she do that? Why didn't she just say no?"

Optimus pinged Ratchet for an update on Borealis' condition, and received a very short string of glyphs in return: "She's fine, I'm busy, leave me alone!"

He said, "I think it was a misunderstanding, Starskimmer. Show me the exact glyphs that you sent to her."

He did so, and sure enough, the Flock coding had led him to state his desire for more instruction as an order.

Prime said, "All right, here is the problem. When you use this glyph"—he sent it—"any Seeker whom you have accepted into your Flock will feel obligated by those protocols to obey you. I would imagine when an armada is in flight, this glyph is necessary in order to avoid midair collisions. The armada forms up on the Winglord and obeys commands without hesitation. They all reach their destination quickly and safely because everyone flies exactly where they are supposed to fly."

Skimmer nodded, and Optimus decided that was enough of an explanation for such a little mechling. Combat tactics and dominance within the flock could wait until he was ready to understand them.

"Now, that glyph should only be used in matters of life and death, like flying very close together at high speed where a collision could deactivate mecha. I know your coding encourages you to use it, because mine does too. But it is _not _nice to order mecha to do things when a polite request will do instead. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Skimmer said, nodding, optics huge. "I didn't mean to order Borealis around. She's nice. I didn't want to be rude or mean to her...or hurt her!" The huge optics filled with coolant.

Optimus' fields soothed Skimmer's distress. "Well, Ratchet says that she is fine, and once he's finished taking care of her, I am sure he will let you apologize to her."

"Do you think she'll be mad at me?"

"No, not after you explain. Being the Winglord is a big job. No one expects you to know how to do it right away. You need to grow up first and you have a lot to learn about being Winglord, just as I had a lot to learn about being Prime. I was lucky to have teachers. You have them too: me, Barricade and Flareup, Borealis, and Milestrina. And any adult will answer your questions; I think you know that."

"Okay."

He didn't sound too sure of that...but then he was Winglord. "Skimmer, there is another reason why you need to be careful. Not all Seekers out there are nice like Borealis. Some of them are very bad people. They will want to challenge you and force you to accept them as Winglord instead. Now, we are going to do our best to keep them away from you, but you never know what might happen. If you ever use that glyph with one of those mecha, they will challenge you on the spot, and you will be in a fight with a very big, very angry Seeker."

Skimmer had an innate understanding of the challenge/submission decision tree. He knew very well what would happen if a full-grown Seeker challenged him, particularly if he provoked the challenge by trying to impose his authority on someone able to outfly him. He huddled close to Optimus' vambrace.

Optimus held him close to his spark. "Rest assured, Skimmer, that if anyone attempts to challenge you before you are old enough to answer the challenge, I will stand as your champion."

The helm came up, and the optics, huge again, focused on him. "What does that mean?"

"Sparklings and younglings usually do not have to meet a challenge personally. Instead, they may ask an older and stronger bot to fight for them. That bot is known as their champion. As Prime, I have the right to step in and defend anyone who has sworn allegiance to me. Strika and other mecha like her know this. That is why I do not think they are likely to bother you until you are much bigger—unless something happens to give them an opportunity, and an excuse."

"Like me sendin' rude glyphs?"

"Yes...though the glyph you sent Borealis isn't really rude. It's just an order. But having you give a challenger an order activates _their_ coding."

Ratchet came to the door. "She can see you now, Prime."

"It was not on my behalf that I asked, but rather, Starskimmer's. He is feeling very badly, and thinks that he was responsible."

"Well, he wasn't." Ratchet looked at Skimmer. "Flying after she got tired was not a good idea, but that wasn't what made her tummy hurt."

"What did? Is she OK?"

"Yes, she's OK. And the rest of it is nobot else's business; remember, we talked about patient confidentiality."

Skimmer nodded. "Can I talk to her?"

"Sure."

Skimmer landed on an unoccupied corner of Borealis' berth. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to order you around. I didn't understand."

"It's all right, Skimmer, I know you didn't. It's a big, big galaxy, and you're still really small. You don't understand some things yet. In time you will, though, so that's okay." The hug she gave him comforted them both.

Optimus asked Ratchet, ::Not to ask you to violate confidentiality, but have Borealis' needs changed?::

::She will require berth rest for a while,:: Ratchet replied. ::I think it will help her to have plenty of company to keep her from getting bored or sky-hungry.::

::I am sure that Arcee will see to it that she has companionship. You know, Ratchet, I should like very much to have a discussion with those so-called trinemates of hers.::

::So would I, Prime,:: Ratchet replied, keeping his fields tightly leashed to avoid upsetting his patient.

Borealis' confinement would continue until after he was able to separate her largest sparkling's egg. Possibly then she would be able to walk around for a time until the other two grew too large to permit it. But Borealis, proud Seeker with all that entailed, was going to be grounded until all the eggs were separated and she had recovered from her carrying.

A groundpounder, like it or not.

Ratchet hoped to be able to preserve her gestation chamber, but she understood that might not be possible and considered it an acceptable loss as long as her sparklings were separated safely. If he could not repair her chamber, he did not have the materials, the tools, or the detailed knowledge of Seeker specifications to build her a new one.

All of that fell with the scope of doctor-patient confidentiality, however. If Borealis wanted anyone to know, then she would have to tell them.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Hot Rod knocked on Borealis' door for admittance, and Arcee opened it.

"You?" she said.

"Me," he replied. "Diarwen was supposed to be here, but Mo Epps had an emergency with one of the other kids and she had to watch D'andre."

"Oh," Acree said doubtfully. "Well, come on in."

Rodi gave her that easy smile of his, the one that seemed, of late, to have a lot more confidence behind it. "What's the drill? Fetch and carry?"

"Mostly. Keep her company too. Come on, I'll let her know the hand-off has happened."

But Borealis, her berthroom peered into, proved to be dozing, propped up among pillows designed for her by Ratchet and Wheeljack.

"Drat," Arcee said. "I'll send her a ping."

"No," Hot Rod said. "She looks tired. Don't wake her."

Arcee looked at him and thought, _Well, maybe this won't be so terrible after all_. "All right. I'll send her an email instead. She has to be roused at 17.71 breem of the next joor, to take something Ratchet prescribed for her. Come on, I'll show you where all that's kept. You have to sign off on her meds."

It was quite a procedure, one adapted from the humans because one of Borealis' doses was radioactive. The small species was, after an unfortunate use of radioactivity in an earlier war, quite easily panicked around that physical quality of several elements, and required a paper trail a driller could follow any time it was used.

And Parker had had several consecutive cows over letting a carrying individual be in the same room with something radioactive, let alone ingest it. Ratchet had explained it to Pierpoint, finally, who had run the inorganic chemistry by Parker, and with that the human medic's ruffled feathers finally settled. These elements were need for, and well-shielded within, every Cybertronian's spark chamber. The half-life was very long, and unless carrying, Cybertronians rarely needed to consume more than trace amounts of the element to replace that lost to radioactive decay over their very long lives. But a carrying genitor had to consume enough to replace what was leached from his or her own chamber to construct the newspark's spark chamber.

His own plating unruffled, Rodi signed his glyph in the book, and printed his English name neatly below it. He set an alarm for two klicks before the med was due, went back into the living room, and unsubspaced his datapad.

The Prime Consort had assigned him some material on energy management, and he was working his way diligently through it. Reading wasn't time consuming, but doing the exercises until you could feel you'd gotten it _right_ was.

Two months after coming to understand that he was a potential Prime, Hot Rod rose halfway through first joor to get the day's homework, assigned him in roughly equal proportions by the Prime and the Consort, out of his way before attending the Consort's morning Circle. Then, having received another workload, he set to physical labor with the other Wreckers, and after that he sunbathed to make energon, often napping through it, to the amusement of the other Wreckers. After _that_ he had his lesson with the Prime. By the time he got to the sparring grounds he was on his last legs, and usually lost to smaller, wilier Wreckers, or even non-Wreckers, because of it. Sideswipe had really been rubbing his nasal structures in that one lately.

In short, Hot Rod's days were so full he hardly knew what to do with himself. Or to state it more accurately, at every single minute of every single day he knew _exactly _what he was going to be doing with himself. A shift with Borealis, doing _nothing_, seemed like a vision of the Well to him.

"Nothing" in this case consisted of reading some very old (by human reckoning) books assigned him by the Consort, and following that up with _The Book of Sorentalix_, an exponentially-older commentary from Cybertron. This latter he found so engrossing that he realized that Borealis had called for Arcee twice before he heard her.

"Borealis?" he said, poking his helm around the entrance to her berthroom. "Arcee's shift ended while you were in recharge. Diarwen got called away because Monique Epps—I don't know if you've met her—had an emergency with one of her kids, and Diarwen's the only available person at the moment who can sit with the youngest Epps child." He shrugged. "I know we got off to a rough start, but I'm just here to help. What can I do for you?"

The young Seeker was heavy-eyed still from her nap. She shuttered at him, and said quietly, "Well, for a start, you can let me apologize to you."

Rodi blinked himself. "I don't know what for," he said honestly.

"For being the worst kind of Seeker. I never met Starscream, but I gather I was behaving a bit like him when I first got here."

"No," Rodi said, shaking his helm. "It was my privilege to see the Wreckers blow him out of the sky once on Cybertron, and he took great pride in discussing our lineage, lifestyle, and probable spiritual destination when we went out to pick up the pieces. Believe me, you were _nothing_ like Starscream."

"Oh," she said, still not looking at him. "That's good to know. —Look, could you help me to sit up a bit? I can't contract the cables over my gestation chamber any more; the renters are too big."

Rodi's handsome face lit up with laughter, and he followed her directions. Just as she was settled again, it was time for her meds; he let her know.

"Bring 'em," she said. "They taste awful, but they feel good."

"What is it?" he said, after counting out the pills and signing for them, again in both English and Cybertronian glyphs.

"An isotope of neodymium is how the humans describe it," Borealis said. She grimaced the dose down with a swallow of energon.

"You know what the humans drink? A weak solution of carbonic and phosphoric acids. They call it 'soda' or 'pop.'"

Borealis shuttered at him. Twice. "You're kidding. That's corrosive."

"Yeah. We can step on them and it'll kill them, but they drink something for fun that would kill us."

Borealis considered this, looking out her window onto the first organic world she had ever lived on. "I'll never understand these beings. Yet the Prime has taken one as Consort."

"Well. Diarwen'd be the first to tell you that she's a visitor trapped on this planet, not really a human."

"She's still closer to them than we are."

"That she is." Hot Rod look out the window too; presently, there were no other bots or humans in view. But this organic world: Life liked it so much that it camped out everywhere it could, which was almost anywhere. Later in the human year, it would become hard to find any but the simplest animal life-forms above ground during this particular joor. Today the desert teemed with them, at least to Cybertronian senses.

Borealis shifted under the lovely blanket Milestrina had made for her. "You're a Prime Candidate, isn't that so? What's that like?"

"It's interesting. I've had to learn a lot of things I never even thought about back when I was just a Wrecker."

"Oh? Like what?"

Rodi began to tell her, and they were surprised when, a good half-joor later, Diarwen reported to relieve Rodi.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Y'know," Jazz said, passing Prowl his energon for the day, "I've had a thought."

"Is it tarring and feathering Sideswipe in his sleep? Or putting the Wreckers into stasis?" said Prowl, who was fairly put-upon that day.

Sideswipe had circulated a memo purporting to be a plan to catch the International Space Station in a gigantic butterfly net when its orbit finally began to decay. Then the Wreckers had begun a quarrel among themselves which not even Rodi could straighten out, nor a visit to Borealis...which usually had a strangely pacifying effect on that famously belligerent group. She made the big puzzled Carrying Seeker eyes at them and they stopped behaving like complete idiots for at least a nanoklik or two. Thereafter they behaved like three-quarters idiots, but that was still a decided improvement from Prowl's point of view.

The Contest was looming, however, and ninety-five percent of Prowl's personnel headaches lately seemed to be centered around keeping Roadbuster and Bulkhead entirely separate from one another. The coding which guaranteed and ensured The Contest was making mutual civility more and more difficult between the sept leaders. The two mecha could apparently argue about whether or not it was a good morning, and would do so immediately upon one of them uttering that greeting to the other, or to anyone else within earshot.

Prowl was very tired of supervising Wreckers. Very, very tired.

Therefore Jazz kissed his furrowed browplates, and pushed him less-than-gently into his favorite chair. "No, it ain't," he said, starting some classical music from his famously enormous collection. "From what Borealis's said about Sawbones, I think we could turn 'im. Have a spy in Strika's group."

"That would be dangerous to Sawbones," Prowl said. He folded the energon cube to lie flat and sailed it across their quarters to land on the windowsill and pop open again. It wasn't aligned perfectly between the edge of the sill and the window itself, and Prowl left it that way, he was so fed up. "He may not have an appetite for taking so large a risk."

"Yeah, an' while we got ways to keep him safe, we won't be there holdin' his servo, either. All we can do is put it to him, see if he's interested." Jazz, who loved Prowl, got up and straightened the popped-open cube.

"I'll consider it tonight, and write a preliminary report in the morning." Prowl put his helm back on the edge of the sofa, so that he was looking straight up, and shuttered his optics.

"Okay. I'll get th' technical stuff all lined up, in place if he says yes. It's all theoretical anyways, till we find a way to contact him." Jazz sat down beside his mate, and gathered him close.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Chip Chase closed up a laptop that he had just finished refurbishing. He picked it up at a garage sale, and had a vague idea about using it for something, someday. But today, the kid that Jolt had helped to escape from the Eastlanders was moving in. According to Flareup everything he owned fit into a couple of bags, and there was no computer of any kind in there.

After upgrades, including a few supplied by Wheeljack, the refurbished machine would run all the games a kid wanted to play and do all the schoolwork that a kid needed to do, and it wasn't too heavy to carry around in a backpack.

He also boxed up a game console and a few games. He was glad he didn't need a hand on the joystick to control his wheelchair, because he needed both to hold onto his load of stuff.

Then he realized something. "Jack! Could you do me a favor while I take this stuff over to Jolt's apartment?"

"What's that, Chip?"

"I forgot to pick up my blasted meds from the medbay pharmacy nurse. Would it be too much trouble to go over there and get them for me?"

"No trouble at all. You're out of that one prescription, aren't you?"

"I took the last one this morning."

"Chip, those have to be taken on schedule."

"Sorry."

Jack Binns, Chip's caregiver, flipped the med admin log to the right page, and read the window-of-administration information. "It'll still be in the window if I bring your lunch dose over to you. I'll be working on Jolt's remodel until I go home, so can you bring them back?"

"Sure. Since you're going to be coming to Jolt's anyway, could you grab that box off the end of my bed and bring it too? It's got some cables in it I might need, depending on where they decide to put Shad's furniture."

"Sure," Chip's caregiver said, and they went their separate ways.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

When he got there, Chip found that Jolt's quarters had become a construction zone. Hot Rod and Jolt were helping half a dozen kids (Shad among them, talking a mile a minute) to modify part of Jolt's quarters into a bedroom and bathroom for Shad. Hot Rod was there for his ability to lift heavy loads, as well as his knowledge of construction.

Chip saw that Jack Darby also knew what he was doing, as he was showing Miko and Evanon how to build a wall frame out of two by fours on the floor, then set the whole thing in place after it was finished.

Chip grinned. He'd caught them before the drywall went in. That meant he could teach them how to wire it properly for ethernet and fiber-optics, instead of snaking cables through already-existing walls.

The bots were framing a staircase against the back wall. Chip asked, "Where will that go?"

Jolt said, "We're building a living area on top of Shad's bedroom, so that he and I can look each other in the optic when we're talking, and sit in our own chairs while we're watching TV together."

"That's great. This stuff will go up there then. Where can I store it until you're ready for it?"

"Over there in that cabinet should be fine. Let me open it for you."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jack Binns entered Jolt's quarters to the wailing of power saws. He found a human to talk to but had to wait until the power saw shut down, then saw Chip, and moved off with a nod of "Thanks, don't bother, I found him."

The ambient noise level was still too great for speech when Jack waved the box full of cables and the bottle of meds at Chip.

Chip took the box with a grin of thanks, and the pill with the aid of a little bottled water. He dropped both bottles into the bag always strapped to the back of his chair.

The power saw finally stopped monopolizing all conversations, and Jack said, "Wow. This is going in fast. What can I do to help?"

Hot Rod, standing nearby, said, "Would you work in the bathroom? The fixtures are too heavy for most of the kids, and I'm afraid I'll break that china stuff."

"Be glad to. Oh! I also have some flea and tick medicine here for Shad's dog."

Shad had Shankie's leash fastened to one of the rear legs of Jolt's table, where he was in no danger of getting in the way and getting hurt, or for that matter of attempting to herd carpenters.

While Chip looked over the new construction to plan how best to route the cables, Jack knelt and held out the back of his hand for Shankie to sniff. "What kind of dog is he?" he said to Shad.

"Shankie's a collie, sir."

"I thought all collies had long hair, and were brown and white, like Lassie?"

"Sir, many of them are. But Shankie has what's called a rough coat, which isn't as long, and his pattern is called blue merle. When they talk about a blue dog, it's really more of a gray color."

"Cats, too. My gray cat is a Russian Blue." Jack handed Shad a small package.

"What's that?"

"It's flea killer. That's a three-month supply. We don't have much of a flea problem here, though the ticks are fierce, but Tsarina had fleas when I got her."

"What do I do with it?"

"His flea collar needs to be taken off first."

That done, Jack showed him how to break open the container and part the dog's hair at the back of the neck, then apply the contents to the skin.

After Shankie was taken care of, and taken out to run a bit after, Shad returned to the work area, and donned his gloves, going back on the job.

Jack and Chip spent the day on construction, as they had planned; they got a lot done because they had a lot of helping hands. Once Chip finished the wiring—he ended up running the electrical cable as well, as the others had been willing to leave that rather intimidating job to the engineer among them—he wired the bathroom with Jack and Shad.

On his back under the sink, he told Shad, "This is the wrong kind of outlet for a bathroom. Take it back to the crate and get me one that says GFI on the box."

"What's that?"

"Ground fault interrupter. If you drop a hairdryer in the tub, the breaker kicks and supposedly keeps you from gettin' fried. Don't know if I trust it to trip fast enough, but the law requires you to put 'em in a bathroom."

"I'll see if I can find one." Shad took the non-grounded outlet in its box from Chip's outstretched hand, and departed.

After he left, Jack drove a nail with one mighty whack, to the accompaniment of the first curses Chip had ever heard him mutter.

"What's the matter, Jack?" he said, from his position under the sink.

"That's a good kid. Those useless fuckers tried to murder him for no reason other than that he's gay. He's thirteen. His boyfriend, that they _did_ kill, was fifteen. Chip, I'm a grown man. I let people's opinions go in one ear and out the other. But murdering kids? If those bastards weren't already dead I'd like to shoot them myself."

"You ain't the only one, buddy. Some people are a waste of good air. Important thing is, they won't be doin' it to anyone else."

"Yeah, you're right, I know."

"Don't get me wrong, that's righteous anger."

"Chip, answer me something, if you can. How do these people take a religion that's supposed to be about loving God and your neighbor and helping the poor and sick, and turn it into 'thou shalt hate gay people?'"

"Or women, or poor people, or anyone who ain't just like them for whatever reason? You can pick a couple verses out of the Bible to justify anythin', Jack. People hate, and they look for an excuse to keep hatin'. Or they're ignorant, and they look for an excuse to stay that way. It's all about lookin' for excuses instead of lettin' the love of God work through their lives. They're not being good Christians. They're being ignorant, hateful bigots."

Chip stopped in the middle of knocking a plug out of a junction box, so that the wiring could be threaded through.

Oh.

_Oh._

That was what he'd been doing where Diarwen and Mikaela and other pagans were concerned. He was clinging to his judgmental attitude because it was safe and familiar instead of loving them as Jesus would have loved them.

He must have been still and silent for a while, because Jack's upside-down face suddenly popped into his field of vision. "Chip? Are you OK?"

The Kentuckian shrugged. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just realized I been an ass, and I owe some people an apology. Ain't got anything to do with this."

Jack nodded, then after a bit of silence moved on to another issue. "We want to get done with everything but the painting today, right? What about gluing these tub panels up? Don't think I ought to poke a hole in this glue cylinder till I'm ready to use it. Does this stuff stink up the place?"

"Yeah, it does. Let's leave that til morning or Shad won't be able to sleep in here. If we get the fixtures in, he can take baths instead of showers til we get the surround up."

At that point Shad brought back the proper electrical outlet, and the three of them returned to work.

By the time five o'clock arrived the rooms were in, ready to be painted and carpeted. The only furniture they set up that night was the bed.

Jolt was finding it hard to believe how much human stuff could be crammed into one corner of his quarters. In order to accommodate Shad, he had moved his desk to the opposite wall and they had pushed his berth a little toward the center of the room.

In the small (by bot standards) space those actions cleared, the boy now had a complete apartment. His bedroom and bath were downstairs, the ceiling of which came to just below Jolt's shoulder, and upon that ceiling lay an area which combined living and dining rooms, a kitchenette, and a study area.

In that tiny (to Jolt) space, Shad could make simple meals for himself with a two-burner stove and a countertop microwave and convection oven; sink and refrigerator completed the equipment. The boy said he was not an experienced cook; that had been so-called "women's work" among the Eastlanders. Here, he could learn new skills, and fix himself breakfast or a quick snack whenever he preferred to stay in: though it was true he would take most of his meals in the cafeteria with other human residents of the Mission City base.

The design of his apartment was also unusual, or so Chip told Jolt. Human apartments usually had the floors reversed, bedroom upstairs and everything else downstairs.

Shad didn't care about that, he said when consulted; he preferred to be able to talk to Jolt at a level comfortable for them both.

Jolt had moved his TV so that they could both see it; the young medic asked Chip about routing the video from games to it. The engineer made a note of the things he would need to set that up, and that closed down the work day. They straightened up after themselves, then the party moved to the cafeteria, where Sarah and Mo had fixed pizza.

Shad himself was thinking furiously as he thanked Sarah politely for the pizza. The work party had introduced Shad to the rest of the kids, and he was completely flabbergasted to be so easily accepted. Jolt had been right. They knew he was gay, and they didn't care.

If Mission City was more like the rest of the world than Eastgate Compound had been, the rest of his life was going to be a great deal better than anything that had gone before.

And the possibility of pizza, Shad thought, was a definite plus.

End Part 15


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimers in Part 1

Chip grabbed a slice of pizza and a cup of punch, and went looking for Mikaela. He found her in Wheeljack's lab, working late on a joint assembly for one of the civilian bots.

Not all of them had the bipedal forms typical of most of the bots they met before Excellion arrived. The joint over which the young engineer labored belonged to a mech named Digger, whose function had been working in the various accessways and conduits below and between the living spaces of Tyger Pax. He had chosen root and alt modes particularly suited for that job. In root mode, he had four spindly arms, which could each transform into various grasping modes or tools. Instead of legs, he had a long, snakelike tail structure suitable for wriggling through small spaces to reach his work area. In alt mode, he pulled in his head and arms and contracted his tail to form a sort of bullet which used a self-contained magnetic levitation system to propel him through clear pipes and tunnels at a high rate of speed.

During the Battle of Tyger Pax, Digger's tail had been stepped on, damaging this joint beyond self-repair. Perceptor had done his best to work around the damage, but the mech was left crippled and in quite a bit of pain. He got around on a wheeled cart, which he used one set of arms to propel around Excellion.

Chip could more than empathize.

Mikaela had taken on the painstaking job of studying scans of the nearest undamaged joints on either side of the crushed one, as well as Digger's own files detailing what the damaged one had been like before his injury, and recreating it by designing files Excellion used to fabricate the myriad tiny components of the joint. Sometimes she needed Wheeljack's advice, but she and several computers running 3-D printing software were doing nearly all of Digger's work.

This was technology that Earth already had, but Excellion's fabricator had a much higher resolution than any 3-D printer currently available on Earth.

Wearing a jeweler's magnifier and working with fine tweezers, she was examining one of those tiny components.

Chip made noise on the way in to avoid startling her and causing her to drop the small piece. "How's it coming?"

She smiled at him and flipped the loupe up, but didn't take off the headband. "Excellion is printing the last components for Digger's tail now, and I'll pick them up tomorrow. Perceptor is going to help me inspect them and file off any flash, then we'll be ready to start assembly. Digger should be getting around fine in a couple of weeks, unless there's some sort of unforeseen problem. Excellion didn't have anyone who could write code for fabricating small parts to these tolerances, or he'd have been back in business a few weeks after the battle."

Chip saw her as if through new eyes. Strong, talented, independent, caring, dedicated, Mikaela Banes didn't need the likes of him. But she wanted him, as damaged and ornery and stubborn as he could be.

She was fine exactly the way she was. And who was Chip to have the audacity to judge the way Almighty God chose to reveal Himself to Mikaela Banes?

Not the man he wanted to be. Chip rolled forward.

"Are you about ready to wrap up? Anything I can help with?"

She put the new part back into a carefully labeled plastic vial, which nestled in a box among numerous other identical vials. Everyone's first impression of most Cybertronians was size; however, they could transform because their frames were constructed of myriad very tiny components that could organize themselves in a variety of ways. Unfortunately that meant there were few "off the shelf" replacements for a structure that got damaged—not any more, anyway, since the factories that once created component sets for standard model Cybertronians had perished with Cybertron.

Chip took the box and stored it in the locker that Mikaela indicated while she put her tools away and wiped down her lab bench.

They stopped by the cafeteria to snag more pizza, then went out the front doors to enjoy the cool night air.

Chip chewed, watching the stars appear as he thought a while before he said, "Mikaela, I've been doing some thinking, and I haven't been treating you right. I'm sorry for the way I acted over religion. I'm not saying that I understand everything, but I was judging you and I was wrong to do that."

Carefully, she put her recyclable plate of pizza down beside her. "Chip, what happened? This seems awfully sudden."

"Got to thinkin' about the Eastlanders. How they twisted the Bible around to support their own prejudices instead of livin' the way a Christian is supposed to. I worked with Shad today, an' he's a great kid: they hated him and woulda killed him for bein' gay. An' the way I've been treating you—an' Diarwen, an' all the other pagans for that matter—well, it's the same way they were acting."

Mikaela stared at him. "They were crazy, Chip, and you aren't crazy!"

"They were an extreme case, but it comes from the same place. We're not supposed to judge other people. We're supposed to love them where they are, the way they are, and be God's love in their lives. If He thinks they need to change, then He'll make a way. It isn't our place to decide who's right with Him, or tell them how to read the Bible, or any of that stuff. But that's what I was doing, setting myself up like I knew the only way to get to heaven."

Mikaela bent to kiss him, but remembered they were on camera and kept it short. "So...what does this mean?"

"It means you do what you feel is right and I'll stop being a butthead about it," he said. "I love you, Kaela. Always will."

"I love you, Chip."

"You wouldn't put up with me if you didn't. You could have your pick."

"You're worth putting up with," she grinned.

"Let's go home."

They went back inside, down through the commons, where the last of the weary work crew were leaving the cafeteria, and Mo and Sarah were cleaning up after the pizza party while Annabelle, Amaranth and—wonder of wonders—D'andre were playing some game of their own invention under one of the tables involving a track laid out using an entire box of flexible drinking straws, D'andre's blocks, and a rubber ball.

Mo raised a finger to her lips. Whatever was going on, _nobody_ had better rock the boat.

They kept moving. Once they got back to their quarters, Mikaela put the kettle on while Chip transferred to the couch and ordered the chair to park itself at his desk, then go into standby mode. Obediently, it rolled to the desk and shut down to save its batteries.

"That's new!" Kaela exclaimed. "When did you add voice recognition?"

"I'm still workin' on it. It's only good in quiet areas right now. It throws errors if there's noise in the room, and sometimes it responds to other people's voices. Like, in the rec room, if somebody had some real good news and somebody else yelled, 'Get out'? It might. And it doesn't work when I'm in the chair yet. The chair's processor prioritizes the DNI first, then the stick, then the voice command system. And there's a strict syntax for commands because it has absolutely no decision making ability."

"Makes sense. Don't want a Frankenchair."

Chip laughed. "Nope. When it's in standby mode like it is now, I have to give it a command to wake up before it will start responding to other commands again. I didn't want it to hear the TV, interpret it as a command, and start running around on its own."

She grinned. "Too bad we can't program it to be a Roomba," she said, and the kettle whistled. One pot of herbal tea later, she set Chip's cup down on one end table, her own on the other.

Chip enjoyed a few sips; the warmth was welcome at night. He put an arm around Mikaela as she settled beside him, and turned off the news.

"Mikaela, what would you think about making this official?" he said, and tilted his red head down to her.

"You mean get married?"

"Yes."

Mikaela gulped, and went the route of being absolutely truthful; she had nothing to lose by it, and everything to gain. If Chip couldn't handle the truth about her, better to find that out now than a couple of years down the road. "I don't know. I hadn't thought about it, Chip, the religion thing...I was willing to stay in the broom closet for the rest of my life, but I can't stop being who I am. Who I am is pagan. Knowing that, are you sure I'm the one you want to be married to? I mean, one hundred percent positively sure? I don't want you to wake up some morning and realize I'm not who you thought I was."

"I'm sure. I kind of got hit over the head with it today; your way is no more wrong nor right than my own. And I've always admired you, you know that." He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "If you'll have me, I would give anything for you to be my wife. But I want _you_ to be sure, too. Am I the one you want to settle down with, have a family with if you decide you want children one of these days?"

She drew a deep and shaking breath. "I think you're the one I want to be with, yes. Children, one of these days, maybe. I'm not ready now. Do you want to be a dad?"

"Like you said, one of these days, not right now."

"I'm concerned about raising kids," she said. "I mean, I know you can get me pregnant, if we jump through some hoops, but giving birth is one thing. Raising a kid for eighteen years is another. Being a parent worries me. Not about you, not about the disability, but about me. I haven't exactly had role models for being a parent, and it worries me that I wouldn't make a good mom. I don't want to be the kind of parent my dad was. Until I get past that, I don't think I ought to get pregnant."

"Your dad's problem is that he's an alcoholic who won't try to kick the habit, and that means he cares more about feeding his addiction than he does about anything else. You don't have that to contend with, Mikaela. You're better than that. But if you don't really see that, I mean really believe it, maybe counseling would help you see all the good things about yourself. I don't want you to go through another day of thinking you're not good enough."

"I never thought about counseling that way."

"I never did either, but there's nothing like being an AB one day and a cripple the next to make you doubt yourself. A counselor set me straight on that. It isn't the same thing but maybe it is, kinda."

"Maybe you're right." Kaela decided she would mention that to Parker. "Your situation is a concern, too. Do you think you'd be up to taking care of a baby? I mean, it's 'round the clock for months before they start sleeping through the night and you'd have to do some of that. With your medicine schedule and everything, would it be too hard? You know you start having problems when you stress yourself and babies are, like, little stress factories."

"That's a serious question. I think I could work around it. Maybe by planning to take care of the baby during certain hours so you could sleep through, and plan my meds routine for that schedule. But here's something else, I know you do a lot of personal care stuff for me when Jack is off duty, and adding a baby to that would be hard on you. If we decide to have kids, we'll need to check all that out with Dr. Parker. Maybe we'd need to hire some more help."

She nodded. "Even if we can't have kids, I still want to be with you. Are you proposing?"

"I need to get a ring first," he said, and grinned that grin that she knew meant he wasn't quite as sure of himself as he sounded.

So she said, "You could ask me first, and then we could go ring shopping together," and grinned back.

He levered himself off the couch and got into a credible kneeling position by leaning on the couch arm, and reached up to take her hand. "Mikaela Banes, will you do me the honor of being my wife?"

"Yes." She knelt beside him and came into his arms for a kiss; the tea grew cold. They made it no further than back up onto the couch for the rest of that long night.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The next Monday morning, it was forty-five degrees when Diarwen's Circle hurried to Buzzard Rock before dawn. They were dressed in warm layers, since clothing that would keep them warm while sitting still (meditating or listening to Diarwen's lesson) would be too warm for sparring.

Jazz and Prowl got there first and warmed a rock for everyone before beginning their forms. Each of them added a little energy to it, to keep it warm while they were there, and when they left, if it retained charge they would return that energy to Earth.

Diarwen estimated the energy that she had contributed with mixed emotions. It was not much, but it was something. She was no longer without her magic, and that was wonderful.

She had not expected to recover as much as she had. Perhaps in time, there would be further healing. Any pangs of regret she felt were over no longer commanding the power that she once had at her fingertips.

It was unrealistic to expect it to return.

She could still teach. Her students would surpass her. Every teacher came to that point one day, when age crept up. Perhaps, in Optimus' case, or young Rodi's, one day they would surpass Diarwen at her best. She would be proud if they did, but she could not deny that she envied them.

Diarwen did not feel old enough to be a teacher who could no longer do what she was teaching her students to do.

She took a deep breath and released it slowly to ground herself, and began her sword dance.

Halfway through, there was a clang. She stopped the form she was practicing and investigated, in case one of her students was hurt.

Optimus had been distracted from his own forms by watching her, and tripped over his own ped, ungracefully avoiding a face-plant in the desert sand.

She shook her head and returned to her exercises. She still had it. Yes, she did.

The rest of the day's lesson went smoothly. As they were gathering their things to leave, Chip kissed Mikaela and told her to go ahead, he'd catch up.

He wheeled over to Diarwen. "Do you have a few minutes?"

"Certainly, Chip. Is something wrong?"

"Not exactly. I'm not real good at this, but...I owe you an apology for judging you. I'm sorry."

"Apology, accepted, of course, Chip. May I ask what is different about this morning...? I do not understand."

"Did you ever start to criticize somebody for something, and realize you were doing the same thing?"

"I think we have all had that experience once or twice," she said. "Would you like to discuss this further?"

"I was talking about Matthew 22:37-39. The verse goes, 'Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.'" Chip shifted in his chair, and Diarwen saw the bright, hot gray of embarrassment thread through his aura. "See, it's this. I realized I was judgin' my neighbors instead of lovin' them. I wasn't bein' righteous, I was bein' self-righteous."

Well. That was enough to be ashamed of, but the young engineer apparently didn't realize that the bitter medicine of self-reflection bore swift fruit—unless, as in the Eastland Church, it was used to fuel further division. "Chip, in my time I have seen many religions rise and change and give way to others. That commandment has been, continues to be, at the heart of nearly all of them, Christian and pagan alike. In the pagan faiths, we have our concepts of harm none, and entering the place of worship, the Circle, in perfect love and perfect trust. A branch of Paganism known as Devotional Wicca puts it even more closely to the King James version. The Mother Goddess tells us, 'My command is thus, that ye shall return all violence and hatred with peacefulness and love, for my Law is love unto all things. Only through love shall ye have peace; yea and verily, only peace and love will cure the world, and subdue all evil.' We are to honor our gods and all beings around us. It is the same thing. Love thy neighbor. That is religion. That is magic. That is everything."

Chip asked, "How can a person believe that and still be a warrior?"

"I can only answer that for myself. Violence for its own sake is always forbidden; justice is allowed, but retribution is not, and there is a fine line between them. It is not an act of love to allow evil to tread unopposed upon the innocent. There are some things which one _must _oppose." The Sidhe heaved a sigh. "I will be the first to admit that I have crossed that 'line between them' for honor's sake. But acting to preserve one's honor, I feel, is acting to love oneself."

Chip nodded. "We don't live in a perfect world."

"No. We do not. But the closer we come to living that ideal, the sooner we will create one."

The rest had listened in silence until now, although it had not been a private conversation; Chip had made no attempt to apologize in private for an offense given in public. Now, he said, "Thank you, Lady Diarwen," and nodded.

Optimus said, "We ourselves have something like it in 'Til all are one.' As you have said, Lady Diarwen, the acknowledgement of our fundamental unity is the foundation of nearly every faith we know."

"Aye, that it is." She smiled up at him, remembering a place near the verge of the Well of All Sparks where they had received the blessings of Ariel and Orthelion. To draw the others into the discussion, she said, "Who else can give examples from other faiths?"

That discussion was necessarily short-lived, as Colors was approaching. The Cybertronians transformed and gave their organic companions rides back to the hangars, to begin their day's work.

As Diarwen stepped down from Optimus' cab, she saw Jazz extend his ramp to allow Chip's chair to exit. Chip and Mikaela exchanged a look that was backed up by the playful interaction of their auras.

Diarwen stopped to give thanks to Brigit of the Hearth. Soon there would be a wedding, or a handfasting—or perhaps some entirely new ceremony with elements of both.

The Circle was open, yet unbroken, and a new day got underway at Mission City.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ratchet was not in a good mood. He had a Pretender named Walker Mayhall sitting on the side of an exam berth, since he had requisitioned human-sized exam furniture from the base hospital, but it hadn't arrived yet.

Presently, they were having a curmudgeon-off at one another, and Mayhall, to Ratchet's great surprise, was leading on points. But then Ratchet had witnessed Mayhall's handy triumph over Ironhide for runner-up in the ongoing, never-really-settled Mission City Perpetual Curmudge, and that well before Silverbolt touched down with the Pretenders.

Mayhall wasn't interested in talking about his situation; he wasn't interested in learning how to perform self-evaluations; he wasn't interested in making the acquaintance of Ratchet. He just wanted to get his damn exam finished and done with. He had been a soldier, he had been a police officer, and he had been a black man in Jim Crow's America. Ratchet's experiences of death and dying over the vorn did not have a patch on Walker Mayhall's, despite the medic's exponentially longer time on the front.

Ratchet, while he had lived most of his life as laboring caste, had as a medic always held the respect of his entire community. He had not spent much of his life kept firmly on the bottom of the caste ladder, as Mayhall had.

So Ratchet ex-vented and examined the new titleholder, paying special attention to warning signs of the things known to go wrong in a new reformat. He found none of them.

"All your systems are in good condition. Take care of yourself, and you won't need another reformat for 180 to 200 vorn. That's around fifteen to seventeen thousand of your years."

For the first time since he'd been called into Ratchet's inner sanctum, Mayhall looked at him. "Did I hear you right, Doc?"

"You did."

"Well, ain't that somethin'."

"Yes, it is." As he had all the others, Ratchet gave Mayhall a shot of nanites coded with the standard cocktail of anti-virus programs and security patches. All he needed was for one of these Pit-be-damned newbies to bring home some Primus-forsaken little present from Soundwave and give it to all the rest of them.

"You're done here. Go recharge while that incorporates. Send the next mech in on your way out."

There were still eight more Pretenders waiting. And he saw Bumblebee at the end of the line; Bumblebee, whose fields were drawn in tight.

He filed that fact away and got back to work. All of the others' examinations were as routine as Mayhall's had been, if more civil, until he got to the last one, Derek Pierpoint.

Flipping the datapad shut and laying it to one side, Ratchet said, "So you're the Wheeljack wannabee who started this whole thing in the first place. You want to explain to me exactly how you got the idea it would be a _good_ thing to stop being a human and become a Cybertronian?"

Pierpoint's optics widened. "That wasn't how it happened."

"Then tell me how it did."

Pierpoint scowled. "No. Not without asking Mr. Glasco or Mr. Zain first."

Ratchet scowled right back, and somehow kept himself from reaching for a wrench. "I'm the fraggin' CMO. I give _Optimus Prime_ orders on medical matters, so who do you think you are?"

"The guy outside your command structure, that's who!"

In the next building over, in the midst of a meeting with Optimus, Prowl, and Lennox, Zain and Glasco both snapped their heads in the direction of med bay as Pierpoint sent a ping on the Pretenders' clan channel. Glasco ran out of the room, while Zain, his optics darting between Optimus and Will Lennox, shouted, "You told me no harm would come to my men, so why is Pierpoint afraid of your medic?"

Optimus raised his brow plates and pinged Ratchet. ::What is going on over there?::

::Nothing!::

::Whatever you are doing to that Pretender, stop it! You have all of them stirred up!::

Bumblebee yelped and drew his peds up as Glasco, lead bull with a herd of twenty-three on his six, thundered past him and under the curtain that screened the medical berth on which Ratchet was examining Pierpoint. The scientist jumped down from the exam table and ran to join his more bellicose associates.

Glasco had the command voice down pat; even Ratchet straightened when he bellowed, "All right, one of you people _report_!"

Pierpoint said, "He was asking questions about how I transitioned, and when I told him I had to check with you or Mr. Zain first, he got really angry. I realized I was in a very bad position so I pinged for help. I'm sorry to make a commotion."

Glasco said, "Anytime someone threatens you, you _make _a commotion. And as for you," the Pretender swung around to Ratchet, who drew himself up to his full height in surprise, "you'd better get this clear as a fuckin' bell! You have a problem with one of my boys, especially one of my support personnel, you come to me or Zain with it, is that understood?"

Everything about his fields and the steady glare of his narrowed optics told Ratchet that it had _better_ be understood.

If he were facing Ironhide, they'd have gone ped-to-ped in a shouting match. But this was a Pretender, only slightly less than one-fourth of Ratchet's height...backed by a couple dozen more just like him. That meant either they would kick his aft, and they had the numbers to do it if they played their cards right, or he would be in an astronomical amount of trouble for kicking theirs.

At this point he knew that the only reason they hadn't kidnapped him instead of Wheeljack was to minimize the chance of losses on their side. With one of their own at risk, that reasoning was right out the window; like the Wreckers, they were not about to leave any member of their clan behind.

Ratchet recognized a situation which could not end well for him when he saw one. He glowered, and snarled, "Fine! He's healthy! Get your afts out of my medbay!"

Glasco maintained the glare long enough to make sure that Ratchet knew he'd lost the argument, then twitched his head toward the exit. His men followed him, none of them looking back. Pierpoint buried himself in the middle of the group.

The invading troops pulled out, leaving behind the fully subdued population of Camp Ratchet.

Its commanding officer pulled himself together and settled his fields. He pulled the curtain back and re-established his command over the area by growling at Bumblebee, "Next!"

The young scout could not remember, later, whether his peds had touched the ground on his way to the berth.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus drew on all his talents as a diplomat to calm things down with the Pretenders. "Ratchet would never harm a patient. He shouts a lot when he doesn't get his way, but that comes of keeping us all alive through a very long war without much in the way of relief or resupply."

Zain said, "With all due respect, sir, S14 answers to Colonel Lennox and ultimately to Director Mearing. It was made clear to us that we are not a part of the Autobot forces. We are willing to take instruction and advice, and grateful to get it, but I hope that in the future that chain of command can be respected."

"Mr. Zain, I will make a point of discussing the human chain of command regulations, and S14's place in that chain of command, at the next staff meeting."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

The Pretenders, now S14, left the main hangar in a group with Pierpoint in the center, and went back to the area they were clearing to make camp. Prime came to the door of the conference room to watch them go.

If he had been hoping to assimilate the Pretenders into the Cybertronian society, Prime realized now that was going to take a lot more effort than he had originally estimated.

In the view of any military organization, there were "us", friendly troops, "them", the enemy, and "everyone else." Those under Optimus' command had been upgraded from "them" to "everyone else," but they were not yet in the Pretenders' "us" category. And if a commander as experienced as Optimus ever needed one, he had just had a very clear demonstration of how quickly "everyone else" could become "them."

The current agents of S14, and the new ones soon to be recruited, might be Cybertronian physically, but culturally they were all-American veterans, with two exceptions—Pierpoint and young Michael Sunderland. Optimus corrected himself. Those two might not be military, but they were definitely part of the same cultural group, and respect for their chain of command was entrenched in that group's attitude. The same thing was true of the soldiers of NEST, of course. His people already understood that, unless NEST soldiers were specifically assigned to a team composed of both NEST and bots, any request for them to do anything should go through Lennox. They would also have to understand that, even if their fields made the Pretenders seem Cybertronian, they were American, and the same courtesy was due S14 as that owed to NEST.

A lot of team building would have to happen, most of it originating with William Lennox, Scot Glasco, and Charlotte Mearing, before the Pretenders would relax somewhat as NEST had. But then, it had taken Optimus and his people had nearly five years of fighting as cohort, almost, with NEST for each side to earn the other's respect. As it had with NEST, it would take time with S14.

Optimus' last thought on the matter was only distantly related to the Pretenders: he realized that when he made his little speech about the chain of command, he was going to land on Ratchet's exhaust-fumes list again.

Fortunately, he knew that territory well.

End Part 16


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimers in Part 1

Meanwhile, back at Camp Ratchet, the medic completed a routine initial scan and asked Bumblebee, "Why did you need to see me today?"

::Ratchet, if something's going wrong with my programming, can you tell?::

Ratchet pushed the confrontation with the Pretenders to the bottom of his queue for the time being. ::That depends. I'm not a processor specialist, but if there's bad code I'll probably be able to find it. Depending on what it is, I might have to call Jazz in to assist with treatment.::

Bee had been one of Jazz' agents almost since he had been old enough to go on missions, and he knew how skilled a hacker Jazz was.

The difference between hackers and programming specialists was one of motive, not ability; the same knowledge was used for each. When Bumblebee was rescued from the 'Cons after Tyger Pax, Jazz had removed the viruses that Soundwave had infected him with in an attempt to gain information about the All-Spark.

So Bee sent, ::That's fine.::

Ratchet asked, ::Why do you think you have a programming issue?::

Bee ex-vented, and recounted his experience of the Mexico raid, this time adding personal details; Ratchet had seen the mission reports, so he didn't have to explain much. ::What I don't understand is why Sam was able to resolve the conflict. It makes me think there might be a serious problem with my ethical protocols. This time, it was justified, but what if next time it isn't?::

Ratchet scowled. Bee's concern made sense, but he wasn't presenting any of the other signs of that sort of glitch. ::I need a hard line.::

No one liked having a medic poking around in their helm, but it was necessary. Bee sat still while Ratchet scanned that section of his code. ::I don't see anything obvious. I'm going to start a more thorough scan. There could be a little discomfort.::

::OK, Doc.::

Ratchet initialized the scan—and then his terrible horrible day got worse. He triggered intrusion countermeasures that came very close to knocking him into stasis; they would have succeeded if he hadn't installed a lot of non-standard defenses of his own over the vorn. As it was, he fell on his aft but managed to stay online.

Bumblebee let out a wordless screech that brought Wheeljack running from his lab. "Ratchet! Bee, what happened?"

::I don't know, I didn't mean to—!::

Ratchet shook his helm and got up, and did some quick damage control. "My fault, Bee, I forgot your ops-level defenses. I'm fine. And so are you. Sam was right. You had to do what you did as a last resort to save human lives. That's always been the exception to Prime's order. Your conflict was about whether your actions were really necessary. They were. Those men would have killed you all, you, Simmons, and Fig, and the symbionts too; killing them was necessary. You're fine. Why don't you get your energon and go check on Carly?"

Bumblebee sent glyphs of gratitude, and did as he was told; Ratchet wished more people around here would do that.

The young scout presented a problem of a different sort, though. "Jack, give me a klick. I need to ping Optimus about something."

"OK, but maybe you should sit down in your office to do that. You fell pretty hard."

"I'm fine, just getting too old for this."

"You are not too old!"

"I'll be sore tomorrow, though," Ratchet griped. "I never used to be. That counts as 'too old.'"

"Ratchet, Primus take it all, you are not and never will be too old for _me_. Now shut up and sit down."

Perhaps the day lost one degree of terrible-horribleness with that, but Ratchet still had things queued up to deal with from processor to skidplate.

Wheeljack got him into his office chair, and made tracks. His lab could not be left running unattended for long; he pinged Mikaela for help.

Ratchet pinged Optimus. ::We have a situation.::

::The Pretenders are not still looking for trouble, are they?::

::What? No, it isn't them. It's Bumblebee. Did you know he was a Protector?::

Optimus replied, ::I was not certain, but circumstances have led me to suspect he might be. Is there an issue?::

::Not anymore. What's going on?::

::I apologize, Ratchet, but I may not yet discuss that. Could anyone else have overheard?::

::No. Should I leave this off Bee's medical records?::

::Yes, that would be wise, at least until I send you word otherwise. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Ratchet. I will deal with the situation this joor.::

::Yes, Prime.::

As soon as the link went dormant, Ratchet swore in several languages, some of them in multiple dialects, and got up to clean and restock the exam area, only to find that Wheeljack and Mikaela had already done so.

Mikaela looked at Ratchet, at Wheeljack, back at Ratchet, then made her excuses and left.

The humans were finishing with their side of the bay. Jolt came in to take the third-joor shift.

"What's going on?" Wheeljack asked Ratchet.

"How the frag would I know? Nobot's at liberty to tell me anything!"

"I think you're about ready to get out of here for the day. Fancy a game of strateka?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I would. I'll get our rations if you'll set up the board."

"Splendid. Would you rather choose your city, or respond?"

"Doesn't matter."

"In that case, I believe I'll try Simfur tonight."

"I'll play as Altihex, then. Pounding away at walls seems like a really good idea tonight."

In his quarters, Wheeljack got out his strateka set, set up the board, and placed his pieces. Simfur was a defensive player's set, with cornerstones that moved at a crawl but could anchor a wall between them. Once four of them were on the board, they created a temple, within which crusader knights could shelter and receive healing and blessings from the priests.

Altihex, like Kaon, had gladiators, but the Altihexians were stronger and less versatile than the Kaonites. The strongest pieces in the Altihexian set were the two rocklords, extremely strong but vulnerable due to their slow movement. Wheeljack's knights would have to sally forth more often than he would have liked to keep the rocklords away from his cornerstones. That would force him to engage the gladiators rather than subject them to volleys from the walls. It was not the energon bath of a Kaon vs. Altihex game, but Wheeljack would have to plan his tactics carefully to avoid a pounding.

Ratchet, meanwhile, sweet-talked Sunstreaker out of a bag of rust sticks, and brought them along with the energon. He knocked on Jack's door, which opened for him.

"You'd have been surprised if it wasn't me," he grumped. "I brought rust sticks."

"Oh, good! Yes, in fact, I would have. I know your knock, you see."

Ratchet thoroughly ignored the warm feeling around his spark that resulted from hearing that as Wheeljack got out a plate for the rust sticks. Their short rations went further when used to dip the snacks. The medic, meanwhile, set his pieces.

They settled down to an enjoyable game which lasted most of the evening. Eventually, one of Ratchet's rocklords captured a cornerstone, and thereby Wheeljack's High Priest.

"An excellent game, Ratchet!"

"It was. You almost had me when you brought those reserves out on the wall."

"I am learning, I think," Wheeljack said. "It's a bit late to start another one."

"I guess it is, at that. I've gotten used to my afternoon recharge. Miss it when I have to work straight through."

Wheeljack began to put the pieces away, long slender fingers dancing among the ruins of Simfur. "There was quite a lot of fuss about the Pretenders. That's all right," he said, as Ratchet opened his mandible. "I know you can't talk about it, at least nothing that violates confidentiality."

Ratchet made a noise of agreement. "I can say, if the Wreckers had minibots, they'd be like those slaggers."

"We aren't that much trouble, are we?"

Ratchet said, "Individually, no. But when I have the whole _clan _in my medbay, it's always trouble. You should have seen them pouring under the exam curtain like a scraplet infestation!"

Wheeljack laughed at the vid clip that Ratchet sent him, and returned one of Reis belting down the mine tunnel ahead of the five angry Wreckers, shot from the trailing Hot Rod's perspective.

Ratchet couldn't help it: he burst out laughing.

The terrible, horrible day came to a decent conclusion as they polished off the last of the last of the rust sticks while watching the evening news. Neither noticed that the outer fringes of their fields meshed lightly and untangled reluctantly when Ratchet said, "Well, good night, Jackie," and got up to go to his quarters.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It was Bee's night off, or so Sam thought of it, and so he said to his father, "Can we get a lift home with you? I'd like to give Bee the whole night off."

Alas for the plans of men. Ron said only, "Sure. _Judy_! Where's my keys?"

Once at the younger couple's quarters, Judy and Carly went in the baby's room; Sam and Ron talked sports. Universal conclusion: two teams, or maybe two and two half-teams (the parent-child duo aqreeing on the abyssal suckitude of two teams, but disagreeing on the abyssal qualities of two other teams, only one of them willing to assign true suckitude to each of those teams, the other saying that yeah, they were bad, but were they that bad?), sucked. Really, really sucked.

Just before eleven, Sam walked his parents to their car. Judy gave him a hug and a kiss under Ron's benevolent gaze (which made Sam want to squirm), and followed that up with a clap to his son's shoulder. "You take care of your girl," he said, then eased himself into the driver's seat.

Sam watched their tail lights fade. By the time he got back into the house, Carly was in her pajamas, yawning, and the teakettle whistled just as he made the kitchen.

"They wear you out?" he said to his wife, and took over the task of tea-creation.

"I love your parents, Sam, but right now and until this baby gets born, everything wears me out." Carly smiled, and took the teacup he offered, exchanging a kiss for it before she went upstairs

Sam wasn't tired. He went outside to sit on the front steps and watch the stars come out, only to find Optimus pulling up to the curb.

"Sam, have you time to go for a drive? We need to talk."

"Yeah, sure. Tell Brains and Wheelie where I am, will you, in case Carly needs something?"

Optimus did so, opened his door, then drove down to the firing range. No one was in the parking lot, so he pulled in and rolled to a stop near the bleachers.

Sam asked, "What is it, Optimus?"

The sound of a sigh came over the radio. The last time Sam heard one like that, his dad had gone on to tell him about the birds and the bees. He sharpened his focus.

"Sam, you are aware that Primus has taken an interest in you."

"That was two years ago. You sound like something's changed."

Optimus ex-vented. "Sam, I...have kept an important part of the truth from you."

The man crossed his arms. "OK. And now you're ready to tell me?"

"Now, I have no choice. You are aware that Primes were not meant to stand alone."

"Yes. You talked to me about the dyads, that every Prime had a Protector."

"You are a Prime, Sam, and Bumblebee is your Protector."

Sam said nothing. Did nothing. The electrical activity in his brain was furious, though. Finally he shifted, and said, "In case you've forgotten, I'm human."

"Apparently, being Cybertronian is not a prerequisite."

Sam was silent for another long time, brain fizzing, until Optimus began to be concerned about his lack of reaction. But then the human said, "The Ancient Primes told me the Matrix had to be earned, and that I had earned it. I never made the connection that was what they meant. How long have you known?"

"I suspected it at the time. You were able to use the Matrix to rekindle my spark, and only a Prime should have been able to do that. But I did not know for sure until Gaia was old enough to speak with me, as the All-Spark now resides within her."

"Gaia?"

"You were there when she was sparked. She has told me that she feels connection to you, as you have both been vessels for the All-Spark; in addition, she has shared memories of being with you on the...some humans call it the astral plane."

Sam said slowly, "I had the perception that a very young Cybertronian was somehow watching me. I never told you, though. I thought I was losing my marbles, Optimus."

"Indeed not." Sam could feel the Prime grin. "You were gaining access to more of the marbles you already have."

"Oh ha ha. Anyway, go on."

"The All-Spark has always Elevated potential Primes, as it did you. She recognizes Primes, and those with the potential to become Primes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

That heavy sigh came through the radio again. "Sam, you have stated repeatedly that you wished to have a normal life. I have done what I could to obey your wishes. I do not know what it means to be a human Prime; I think no one does but Primus Himself. The life decisions that you have made so far, however, closely parallel the training of a Prime, while remaining within the framework of human experience. You have chosen a career that seems as likely as any other to train you for leadership among your people, if that is your destiny. You are already studying with Dr. Hunt to learn to use your gifts. On Cybertron, Primes were priests, but—at least for now—yours does not seem to be a religious path. And even if it were, your people have your own gods."

"I wouldn't have defined myself as 'religious' in any case."

"Probably not. And some of what I was taught as a candidate for Elevation is no longer of any use. I see no purpose at all in teaching you the etiquette required to move confidently among Cybertron's highest castes, or how to make an appearance at court. That part of my training has no relevance any more, not to you, not to anyone. And Charlotte is already teaching you the behavior expected of you by your leaders."

Sam gave a chuckle. "If I need to go face-to-face with the Queen of England, I'm sure she'll find someone to teach me how not to put my foot in my mouth."

Together, they watched a coyote, which would never need to meet the Queen of England, warily scope the Prime's alt-form out, then trot across the open, lit stretch of the parking lot, vanishing into the dark that swallowed up the desert beyond their small ring of light.

Optimus continued, "Sam, we Primes are not who we are by accident—we are chosen by Primus to serve our people. But that does not mean we are denied the opportunity for family life.I saw no practical good in throwing your life into upheaval with this knowledge when you were already set upon the ideal course, doing everything possible to prepare yourself to fully become a Prime."

Sam was silent for a moment. Then he said, "You know, I figured out a lot of what I wanted to do with my life before Bumblebee arrived in it. Otherwise, I'd be asking myself how much of my life I'd planned, and how much of it Primus imposed on me."

Optimus passed on commenting on that. For one thing, he was pretty confident that if he stayed silent, Sam would realize at his own pace that he had irrevocably set his feet on the path he now trod by shoving the Matrix into Optimus' spark.

The Prime let a few more moments pass before he said, "Now, though, Bumblebee _is_ involved. The only Protector that he ever knew was Megatron, but my brother was not a good example. He was to his cohort what the Fallen was to mine—an outlier, in the most negative sense of that word. Bee will need your help to understand that he is the first of a new band of Protectors, mecha—and, perhaps, humans—who will restore honor to the title. Therefore, I could remain silent no longer. I am sorry for bringing more complications into your life. But I am not sorry that I may now claim you as brother."

Sam nodded. "Me either. Or at least, I won't be once I stop reeling. —Thank you for trying to respect my wishes. I know I've been very selfish in the past about my desire for normalcy. What does this change? What do I need to do for Bumblebee?"

That Sam asked that question in that way reassured Optimus. "I do not know that it changes anything. But you both need to be aware that Bumblebee's coding has changed due to the activation of his Protector protocols. A Protector answers to his own Prime. Bumblebee is no longer directly subject to my orders, but rather, to yours. You have long been his Guarded. You already understand that he will defend you to the death if need be. The dyad bond is even stronger than that, since like a twin or sparkmate bond, one usually follows the other. Now, he must defend himself in order to defend you. In many ways, Prime and Protector are one."

Sam's face paled. "Oh, Optimus. I never understood the extent of Megatron's betrayal until now."

Optimus gathered himself for a moment; he needed to speak of painful things, and therefore to guard himself against the ravages of that old, old pain. "Sam. Megatron's relationship and mine was not the same as yours is to Bumblebee. Megatron indeed betrayed our bond of brotherhood, and that has left a wound in my spark that I will bear to my deactivation. But he never accepted the dyad bond. Only that refusal allowed him to go to war with me in the first place, and it probably ensured my own survival past his deactivation as well."

Sam was silent for a lengthy period. "So, Optimus, does this mean Bee has given up his freedom to be my Protector? Did anyone even ask him if that was what he wanted to do?"

"Sam, I have no doubt that he would have agreed in a sparkflash, but I cannot lie to you. Yes, a Protector gives up a measure of his own autonomy to serve his Prime. This creates a responsibility that you will always have to bear in mind."

Sam had gone pale. "Details, Optimus. Give me details."

"Be very careful how you ask Bumblebee to do things. If he takes something that you say as an order he will obey."

"Optimus, that doesn't sound like protection, it sounds like slavery. I never want to do that to Bee!"

Optimus felt the heaviness of his spark lift, and said, "I see that you do understand. The dyad relationship goes back to the earliest days of Cybertronian civilization, when our ancestors were still actively in the process of rooting out the vestiges of the Quintessons' slave coding. For the most part they were successful. To this day, however, it still exists in our core code in ways that we can never completely escape. Because this is true, it is your responsibility to see to it that you never take advantage of Bumblebee's Protector protocols. Anything said to him that is phrased as an order will compel his obedience."

Sam cringed. He couldn't count the number of times he'd said casually to Bee, "Hey, get me a soda."

Those days were over; Sam sighed for his own ignorance. "I'm glad you explained that to me. It isn't exactly intuitive to a human."

"No. It would not be. Another factor that may affect your interactions is that, in Cybertronian, spoken language is accompanied by the transmission of glyphs which clarify what is being said aloud. Vocal language is an approximation. To give an order in Cybertronian, as opposed to making a suggestion or a request, requires the transmission of an imperative glyph. I hope that the fact that you do not transmit these glyphs will free you and Bumblebee of the possibility of a poorly phrased directive accidentally binding him. But, until we know, you must be especially careful."

"Yes."

"Would you consider studying with the Lady Diarwen? She is deeply acquainted with the right use of language. She may be able to tell you things I do not know."

"I'll make time," Sam said. He had to go back to DC tomorrow night, while Bumblebee remained here with Carly, but Sam would soon be returning on family leave. He would arrange something with Diarwen now, the understanding being that their lessons would have to be vid chat and email until his return.

Optimus was saying, "Good. I know you will be careful. You and Bumblebee have proven repeatedly that you can be trusted with each other."

"Optimus, you said this is a bond, like the ones between twins and sparkmates?"

"Yes."

Anguish twisted the face of Bumblebee's Protected. "Oh, God. Oh, my God. What's going to happen to Bee when I die of old age?"

"I do not know the answer to that question, Sam."

They were silent for a long moment, sharing their pain over that unalterable, inescapable fact. Sam would die, and Bumblebee would survive him. How long, they could not know.

Optimus said, his own anguish still in his voice, "None of us knows how long we will be here, Sam. If this Pit-be-damned war has taught me anything, it is that. Do not regret Bee's becoming your Guardian. I have known him a long, a very long, time. I feel in my spark Bumblebee would have made the choice to be your Protector without hesitation, had the question been posed to him, just as he did to be your Guardian. There is a reason behind this bonding, something that Primus intends for you both. Better to live every day without hesitation or regret, and when that reason becomes apparent, face your destiny head on. Every life is far more than the sum of its joor. Waste no time on regret."

Whereupon Sam managed a smile, and said, "You've left something out."

"I have?"

"Yes. Don't make the other person in the bond 'waste time on regret' either."

Sam could hear the smile in Optimus' voice. "You and Bee will be fine, if you see it so."

"Bee doesn't know yet, does he?"

"No. Ratchet only found out this afternoon, and he told me not long ago. Bee knows something out of the ordinary has happened, though Ratchet has mollified him for the time being, but his confusion will only increase until we tell him the truth. I felt that you needed to understand the situation before we spoke to Bumblebee. But we should do that now."

"Let's go find him, then."

"You should know where he is."

Sam hesitated, then closed his eyes, opening himself as he did when he sensed that his gift had thrown one of its webs around a collection of seemingly unrelated facts. This time, instead of connecting the flight of a butterfly in Africa to a hurricane in the Caribbean, he understood that a certain yellow Camaro was parked on the plateau south of the proving grounds.

If he had needed proof of Optimus' story, there was the evidence. "The south road," Sam said.

Optimus started his engine.

There was little to see at the south end of the grounds; this part of the base was unused, being downrange of the firing line, though it was safe enough when no one was using the proving ground.

Safe enough to use as the place where you changed a friend's life forever. Optimus pulled up, Sam got out, and Bumblebee transformed to root mode when Optimus did.

"Something...wrong? You both...seem...serious."

Optimus said, "It is your place to say if the news I have is bad, but it is momentous."

Bumblebee cocked his head and sent a query glyph.

Sam said, "Maybe it would be a good idea if we were to sit down, Bee."

"Is...everyone...all right?"

"Everyone is fine," Optimus assured him. "Bumblebee, I have known for some time a truth about Sam which I only told him this evening. Sam is a Prime. Today, after examining you, Ratchet as much as told me that you are his Protector."

Bumblebee's optics irised all the way open and for a moment his companions were afraid he was about to glitch.

"How...can...this...be?"

"I do not know, Bee. It is the Will of Primus. None of us understands why we are chosen. I certainly never understood why He chose me."

"Because...Sentinel...not worthy. Led us all...to ruin. You brought us through. You were the only one who could. Primus knew...before...we did...that...you were our only hope."

"I hope you are right, Bee. But only time will tell."

The young scout smiled at his Prime. No...his Magnus. Sam was his Prime now. "Time...already...has."

Sam said, "Bee, I sure don't know what Primus wants me to do. But I have an idea why he picked you, and why He did it before Hot Rod's Protector-to-be is found. You see, you've always been a protector, for me and mine, for everyone around you. It's who you are. If he wants me to be a Prime, who else would He trust? You've already proven you can do the job. And you'll show the new guy how to do it, too."

"Thank you...Sam."

"No. Thank _you_. Thank you for everything, since the day we met. Thank you for taking care of me, thank you for taking care of my family, thank you for putting up with me when I was an arrogant asshole—"

Bumblebee chirped and whistled glyphs of great amusement, among which he completely failed to deny that Sam had, on occasion, been an entire carload of self-important, entitled anuses.

Optimus sensed the fields settle between the young dyad, and he knew they were going to be all right. It would take time for them to grow into their roles, but they would.

He took some time to explain Protector protocols to Bumblebee, which the scout accepted with an equanimity that Optimus suspected might have been a product of the protocols themselves.

Not for the first time Optimus wondered whether his own blindness where Sentinel was concerned had poisoned his relationship with Megatron.

The Prime pushed the familiar grief and guilt down. This time was for Sam and Bumblebee, not contemplation of his own past shortcomings.

Sam said, "I, umm, think I probably should get back and check on Carly."

"Come...along...then...Protected."

Optimus sent glyphs of amusement, and left to be with Diarwen. Yes. They'd be fine.

End Part 17


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimers in Part 1

Ratchet and Wheeljack tapped on the door to Jazz' inner sanctum.

The spec ops bot and Prowl had divided their office space. Just as in their quarters, Prowl's side of the room was neatly organized. Everything he needed to do his job was exactly where it was supposed to be.

Once a visitor stepped across the invisible line to Jazz' side, however, the Jazz-order system known to everybot else as "chaos" abruptly manifested. He claimed to know where everything was, and over the vorn, that had proven to be true. But nobot else could find anything.

Jazz defended the mess as his first line of security. It had certainly worked on those few occasions when Soundwave's mob of symbionts had invaded Jazz' office on the _Ark_.

At the moment, Prowl was out of the office, dealing with the complication that was the Pretenders. Jazz looked up from a datapad. "Ratch! Jack! C'mon in, mechs!"

He indicated that they should be seated, and swivelled his own chair around to face them. "What's up?"

Ratchet said, "I have a proposal for you. Have you ever considered getting your medical certification and becoming a mind healer?"

Jazz looked about as startled as anybot had ever seen him look. "Who, me? A healer? With mah rep, mech? Nobot's gonna want me pokin' around in his helm unless he's already got one ped in the Pit."

Ratchet said, "Not true. I had a patient recently who presented with a possible deep-coding glitch. When I told him that I could identify a problem like that, but I probably don't have the skills to repair it, he agreed immediately to having you treat it. Under the circumstances, that's permissible in an emergency, as long as you're working under a healer's supervision."

"But you're talkin' about me treatin' more than one patient."

The medic ex-vented. "Jazz, I'm asking you to do this because there's a greater need for it than just this single emergency. Some of us need preventive care. Myself, for example. Medics need our code examined at least once a vorn. However, it's unethical for us to have that done by someone who is not bound by a healer's oath: our memories include many files a programming analyst might see that could violate patient confidentiality."

Jazz, thoughtful, said eventually, "Ah never thought about becomin' a healer. Not once, in all the vorn. But since Smokey went missin', there ain't anyone else, is there?"

"Not yet. Alternatively, you could teach your skills to somebot else who was willing to do this in a clinical setting. But I don't think you've tainted yourself in any way. You may have done things that wouldn't have been ethical in a hospital, with a patient, but I doubt you strayed too far over the line even for wartime ethics."

"Ah've done a lotta things, Ratch."

"Did you ever reprogram anybot?"

"No!" He paused. "Well, maybe. There was this processor-damaged 'Con. He was completely blanked, an' what was left of his memory core was scrambled, and physically damaged beyond salvagin' to boot. His spark, though—that was still healthy. Ah gave him a new memory core and wrote some basic background for it. Ah was careful not t'cause any conflicts with his spark coding, but Ah...gave him a push toward our side, an' forced a new alt on him. Changed his colors an' everything. That's as much as Ah want to say."

The medic almost smiled. Wheeljack did so openly. Ratchet asked, "Is that the worst thing you ever did?"

"Worst thing Ah ever did hacking anyone. Y'don't wanna know the worst things Ah _ever _did. Ah wish Ah could forget 'em myself."

Ratchet thought that between the expression on Jazz' faceplates and the feeling of his fields, that was likely true. "Does it help you to know that what you did is the accepted medical procedure for a patient with a hopelessly damaged memory core and no backup? Short of the new alt and color scheme, I mean."

"Yeah. But this Pitspawn had a backup."

Ratchet stayed silent for a moment. Then he said, with an air of deliberation, "How many mecha have you deactivated outright? Would that have been better, since he was someone you'd call a Pitspawn? You saved his life, as well as the lives of all the Autobots he would have killed if you'd left him a 'Con. It probably wasn't right, but I'm not going to call it wrong, either. It was the best bad solution available when there weren't any good ones. I don't think Primus will judge you too harshly for it."

Jazz remained silent. It wasn't enough.

Wheeljack said, "It was wartime, Jazz. Everyone understands that. Besides, you know even if he had read the backup, it wouldn't have been the same as getting his own memories back. It may have been more merciful to give him a fresh start."

"That might be," Jazz said thoughtfully. Memory files gave the facts, but couldn't record the emotional context that came from the spark. Unless reading the memory file triggered spark-recall of the event, the amnesiac would have no more emotional connection to the memories than if he were reading memory files that had belonged to someone else.

Jazz could imagine going mad very quickly from knowing precisely what atrocities he had committed without understanding how he had justified them to himself...or how necessity had obliged him to commit them anyway.

And _he_ had attempted always to be an upright and honorable mech. What the 'Con would undergo when viewing his memories from that distance...was really not to be thought of. Nor allowed near one's processor.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the path he had trod was the way of greatest mercy, after all.

Ratchet said, "The point is, you know what happened to me."

"Pretty much." And he admired the medic for having the courage to bring it up.

"Jack figured out what was wrong with me before I did anything that couldn't be put right. And I was able to fix it, this time. But what about next time? What if Percy has to go without a code analysis until the same thing happens to him?"

Jazz said seriously, "Ah need to think about it, Ratch, but Ah promise ya, I'll either do it myself or Ah'll train someone else who can. Ah just don't know if Ah trust m'self to do somethin' as...as intrusive as analyzin' sombot's code. Ah know it's medicine, but Ah've always considered it th' next thing to rape. Ah don't know if that's th' attitude I oughta bring to tryin' to help a patient."

Ratchet ex-vented. He'd hoped for Jazz' acquiescence; that was the simplest, and thus the swiftest, solution available. But he said only, "Before you decide, maybe you should ask some of the Autobots you have helped how they feel about it. I don't think they'd describe it as 'the next thing to rape.'"

Jazz considered this, but his next words let Ratchet know the medic had lost the argument, at least for now. "Maybe you're right. Ah still need time, though."

"There's no big hurry. Think it through. You'll figure out the answer that's right for you." The medic stood, and so did Wheeljack.

Jazz nodded. He knew he would; he just wasn't looking forward to the spark-searching it would entail.

And it hadn't escaped him, either, that Jack's and Ratchet's fields were lightly merged, which they had been lately whenever the two were together.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

That evening after his shift ended, Jazz went straight to his quarters and plopped ungracefully in his chair, fields pulled in tight to his plating. He sent a glyph to turn on his favorite delta blues mix, and stared out the window at rocks and sand.

Prowl, who had been reading his email when Jazz moped in, tolerated this for exactly 1.62 breem, then idled his mail reader and crossed the room to his brooding mate. "What has upset you?"

Jazz tilted up his helm to meet his mate's optics. "Ratchet wants me to either take a healer's oath an' become an analyst, or train somebot else to do it. Ah got to do one or th' other, it's absolutely necessary. But Ratch thinks Ah could do it."

Prowl knelt beside the chair and put one arm around the saboteur. "Yes, you could. Jazz, I have survived all these vorn without living in fear of my glitch because I have always known that I could depend on you to untangle any problems that a crash might cause. I do not fear awakening to the confusion and disorientation which inevitably follows a crash because of you: you are there to anchor me. To repair me if necessary."

"That's different. Ya know m'spark, mech. Ah couldn't slip anything past ya even if Ah wanted to. Other bots don't have your reasons to trust meh."

"No. They have other reasons. Your behavior has always been above reproach; even when there was no option other than to do reprehensible things, you consistently chose the least reprehensible, the kindest. Why do you doubt yourself now?"

"Analyzin'—and repairin'—somebot's code is only different from hackin' 'em outright because they give you permission t' do it."

"Why do you think so, Jazz?"

He told Prowl the tale of the hacked 'Con.

"Hmm. In my opinion, you acted exactly as a certified mind healer would have done under those circumstances. No 'Con you ever hacked found his file structure in disarray, or had files of family memories renamed, or any of the cruelties that I have seen Enforcer hackers impose on interrogated criminals. You also repeated only that information you found in a hack which was necessary for military purposes. You did not violate any prisoner's privacy for entertainment."

That was true. Jazz pondered.

When his optics came back to Prowl's, the tactician said, "If your hypothetical patients could access your memory files to see how you conducted yourself in the course of your duty, I feel they would be encouraged rather than discouraged to put their coding in your servos."

The saboteur looked away, and ex-vented. "Do ya have any idea what it's like t' break inta somebot's processor when they don't want ya there?"

"No, Jazz, I do not. I _do_ know that if you had not been willing to endure the pain of doing that, our war would most likely have ended long ago, and any survivors would still be under Megatron's yoke. The only alternative would have been torturing prisoners for information, which Optimus could never have allowed."

"Ah know you're right, Prowler. Ah just don't know if Ah can do that again, not to friends like Ratch and Percy."

"You have the option of training someone else, someone for whom using those skills for healing would not bring up memories of war. Perhaps that would be the best course. You have done your duty. There would be no shame in allowing somebot else to step up and do theirs."

"They wouldn't be as good as me. Not for a lotta vorn. What if they missed somethin' Ah woulda caught?"

His optics and his fields were both tortured. Prowl leaned over Jazz' chair, and caught him close. Sitting, the Solstice was a head shorter than his cycleformer mate. "Your options are, perhaps, not so clearly either-or."

"Whaddaya mean by that?" Jazz said to his mate's chestplates.

Prowl smiled, and put his cheekplate down on top of Jazz' helm. "You have a priceless skill, which only you possess. No matter what else you do, you must pass that skill on, so why not begin with that? Search out promising apprentices, at least three, perhaps from the apprentice and journeyman healers among us, and begin their training. You need not make an immediate decision about becoming a healer yourself in order to do that. Give others the tools, and make options for yourself."

"Fair enough. But I still know th' Pit of a lot more about code analysis than they will."

"True. There will be times when your students' talents may not be equal to a challenge, but most tasks will be routine. Do the urgent work now, perhaps allowing your trainees to observe. Set up a system in which you will, for a time, double-check their work. Don't the humans have systems like this in place? Take their best ideas and use them. Then begin to let go, if that is what you need. Jazz, you do not have to be all things to everybot. "

Jazz leaned his helm into Prowl's chestplates and found solace in the mesh of their fields into one. "Ah know. But Ah need to figure out what Ah need to be to maself."

"That is a journey upon which I cannot be your guide, but only your companion."

"Always," Jazz replied. "Ah knew there was a good reason why Ah got bonded to a strategist."

Prowl smiled again: a sight not often seen. "There might be more than one," he said.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Wheeljack was happily puttering in his lab, performing a number of small, non-urgent tasks. This one gave him particular pleasure: the latest batch of protoform gel which he had cultured was ready.

He carefully applied it to Skysong's youngling frame according to Ratchet's specifications. The gel flowed into place and the last few lights on the diagnostic screen attached to the protoform came up green.

Wheeljack smiled, disconnected the screen, and covered the protoform. It would be ready when Skysong was.

He pushed its wheeled cart back into the storeroom, then went back out into the lab, looking forward to puttering for the rest of the joor. Suddenly, however, his lab was full-to-bursting of Wreckers.

He smiled at his clan. "Hello! I thought you were still working in the new quarters today—is something wrong?"

"No, Jack, nothin's wrong. At least, I don't think so," Roadbuster said. "We wanted to talk to you though."

"Did I do something—? I haven't blown anything up lately." Scrupulously honest, he added, "That I know of, anyway."

"No! For the last time, you ain't in trouble."

"Usually when someone wants to have a conversation with me, it involves an explosion of some sort."

"I guess we're bringin' you a new experience, then. We was wonderin', is Ratchet going to join our cohort, or are you two plannin' on startin' your own?"

Wheeljack looked at him blankly. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean, Roadie."

"When you was kayoed by that mob of Pretenders, an' Ratchet was workin' on ya, he could hear the cohort bond."

Wheeljack rocked back on his peds, and might have fallen over backward if Leadfoot hadn't pushed him back upright.

"I don't know why that happened. As you said, I was 'kayoed' at the time."

"Then we need to go have a talk with Ratchet, Jack. Not everybot would be happy to find out they'd eased their way into a Wrecker cohort, an' if this ain't what he wants, we gotta do somethin' pretty quick. Once the bond settles you know what a Pit of a job it is to break it. Can damn near kill some mecha."

Wheeljack pinged Ratchet, then said, "He'll meet us outside. Let's get some sun."

Ratchet hadn't arrived by the time the Wreckers did, so the cohort staked out a corner of the lot, which Steeljaw galloped a couple of circles around. He started digging next to the pavement and threw sand all over Sunstreaker, who reacted with a loud screech of Cybertronian invective, and reached for a rock as he shook off the sand. Topspin yelled, "Steely, get over here!"

Steeljaw favored Sunstreaker with an open-jawed grin before loping back across the parking lot. Flareup grabbed her energon cube just before he stepped on it, and shouted at the Wreckers, "Get your Pit-be-damn bolt bucket under control before I put him on a fraggin' electroleash!"

"Steely! Get your aft over here, _now!_"

Steeljaw grinned at Flareup, happy to see her as he was to see anyone new, and loped over, glossa lolling, to make nineteen more circuits of the Wreckers' area. Then, his excess energy burnt off, he flopped down contentedly between Topspin and Leadfoot.

By the time Ratchet appeared, Steeljaw was in recharge. If he hadn't been, the medic would have been subjected to an intense greeting, since his fields were beginning to feel to Steelie like Wheeljack's.

Ratchet transformed and parked next to an electrical hookup. He used his remote to plug in, then docked it again. "Sorry I kept you waiting. Jolt was helping Shad with something and I couldn't leave medbay until he got there."

"Ain't a problem. How is Shad?"

"He's got a big adjustment to make, but he's settling in. In my professional opinion, not living with homicidal maniacs always helps that process."

All four Wreckers, three of whom might classify as "homicidal maniacs" if faced across a battlefield, and the fourth of whom could handily explode any survivors, rumbled agreement.

"What did you need to talk to me about? Because if this is about energon for the Contest—"

"No, we got that! We're stickin' right to that schedule you gave us. This is somethin' else."

Ratchet cocked a browplate, and waited.

Roadbuster found his peds fascinating.

"Any time," Ratchet said.

Roadbuster continued to monitor his peds with the same intensity used by a prom queen who _might_ need a pedicure.

Finally, Wheeljack sent, ::Ratchet, when I was rescued, during the period I was unconscious and you were hardlined to me, you were able to overhear our cohort bond. We were wondering...:: Wheeljack paused, and of all things, felt _embarrassed_ to Ratchet. The inventor gulped, and blurted, ::Wewerewonderingifthehardlineallowedthat.::

Ratchet scowled and checked his logs. He had thoroughly documented Wheeljack's state at the time, with the idea of later kicking the aft of those responsible. He'd had no resources left over to monitor the precise source of the data he was receiving because, for a medic, that was a lot of data, much beyond what the average bot could track or was even aware of.

::I don't know either,:: he replied. ::My logs don't show me that. What else do you think it might be?::

Roadbuster made some decision regarding the pedicure that allowed him to look into Ratchet's optics. ::Before you left for Missouri, Jackie was able to tell that you was really upset. We was here, havin' our energon. You was either at Nellis, or on your way back here.::

Ratchet gave Jack a startled glance. ::You were? Jack, are our fields intermeshed?::

Jack pondered the question. ::I don't know, Ratch.::

The other three Wreckers looked at one another. It was Leadfoot who finally sent, ::Pit, yes. They are now. They are every time you two are around each other. You didn't know that?::

Two helms were shaken back and forth.

Roadie glowered at Footie and sent, ::Well, you two need to talk it over and figure out what you're going to do. We're good with whatever you decide. Another thing, Ratchet, we'd welcome you into the cohort. It don't have to be now, the offer's open. Anybot good enough for Jackie's good enough for us.::

Ratchet was startled by the offer, but he had learned enough about Wreckers, over the vorn, to be honored by it. It wasn't necessarily physical strength that made a Wrecker; anyone could get mods for that. The qualities they looked for came from the spark, and not everybot had them.

He gave the clan leader a buffet on the shoulder. ::Thanks, Roadie. I appreciate that.::

There wasn't much to say after that, and if the Wreckers noticed that Jack's and Ratchet's fields had not un-meshed, nobot mentioned it.

Rising temperatures as the afternoon wore on soon lured everyone into a nice recharge; Bumblebee would have been startled to realize that his group had imported the Mexican concept of the siesta before he returned from Merida.

Even Steeljaw, though too small to enjoy the sun for long—he overheated—was happy in the shade thrown by one of his bots, with his fans running on power drawn from the grid and his legs out in the sun to make some energon.

Timers started to go off near the end of third joor. Bots stirred, and began to disconnect from the grid. The Wreckers went back up to the site to finish the second half of their day's work.

Ratchet and Wheeljack were both quiet as they went back to med-sci. Ratchet followed Wheeljack to his lab, after checking with Jolt that he wasn't needed in med bay.

Wheeljack eyed him rather nervously and made three circuits around the lab: one to check on the experiments he had running, the second to restart the ones he had idled while he was out in the sun, and a third that was, Ratchet began to suspect, to avoid him, Ratchet.

Ratchet himself did some equally unnecessary fossicking around in the storage lockers, ostensibly inventorying supplies. He too made a triple round of fossicks.

About nine-tenths of the way through both Ratchet's third fossick and Wheeljack's third circuit, their skidplates collided, and each one spun to face the other.

Ratchet exvented. "They're right, you know. We need to talk about this."

Wheeljack heaved his own sigh. "I know, Ratchet. I'm not sure where to begin, though."

_Well, that leaves it to me, _Ratchet thought. "Jack, I value our friendship. But, an ill-tempered old mech like me? I never expected the friendship to become more than that. I didn't want to push you away by saying anything, and that's what I was afraid would happen if I did. And the way things were, the Autobots couldn't afford to have us on the outs."

"That's what kept me quiet too."

"But when you disappeared, I thought you were dead. With the Unicron-cursed war over, I thought I'd lost you. To a bunch of—of half-human minibots! Your cohort's right. There's no reason to keep dancing around the subject.

"If I'm reading this wrong, just say the word and I'll never mention it again. But Jack, if you're agreeable, I'd like to see if we can be more than just pals."

Wheeljack stood where he was and looked at Ratchet for so long that the medic's spark dimmed. "You can say no, Jack. We'll still be friends."

Wheeljack, finally, smiled at him, and said, "Old chap, I thought you'd never ask."

Their lip-plates met. As first kisses go, this one was not great.

It was in fact such a long drive from great that Ratchet pulled his helm back and said, "Jack...have you ever kissed anybot before?"

The inventor shook his helm, and his faceplates saddened. "I met you while you were still a surgeon at Iacon Central, Ratchet, several vorn before you started the clinic near the Causeway. I knew then that you were the only bot for me...but I was young. I waited to see if I would change, or if you changed into somebot I couldn't love. Never happened. I never wanted anybot else, so..." Jack shrugged, which made his mad-scientist collection of helm projections jingle musically.

"Great Primus, Jack. Let's start over."

"Um...why?"

"Because," Ratchet said patiently, "I haven't courted an inexperienced bot since I was inexperienced myself. We'll have to go a little more slowly. You have some things to learn which I will be glad to teach you. One of them is how to kiss."

Fast and furious sets the pace, but slow and steady wins the race. In this case, it was a dead heat between the participants, and both enjoyed the journey around the track far more than the rush to the finish line. Though that had its charms too.

And the second kiss, while only the beginning of that process, was in fact a great deal better than the first.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Wreckers, like dogs, needed to know the pack order. Since the arrival on Earth of Bulkhead and Hot Rod, Excellion's Wrecker sept, the Wrecker-clan pack had been in disarray.

_They ain't bad bots, a'course not_, Roadbuster thought. _They just need ta be put inta their places. Maybe, maybe not, at th' bottom of th' clan_.

This morning he had his ration of energon early; for this day and the last two, both he and Bulkhead, with whom he would strive for clan leadership in a Wrecker ceremony known as The Contest, had had full rations, culled for this purpose from the other Wreckers' portions.

It wasn't ideal, a'course. If they had a way to, the Wreckers would hold two Contests a day for three days. This first day, Roadbuster and Bulkhead would Contest. So would Hot Rod and Wheeljack; those two had not prepared for it, as the outcome was not in doubt. It was in fact pretty likely that Jackie, Primus love 'im, would simply submit to Rodi. Jackie had no aspirations to climb the clan tree.

Roadbuster spared a thought for the possibilities if Ratchet joined the clan. Ratchet was fraggin' near as proficient on the battlefield as he was in medbay. That would be...interestin'. He was pretty sure he, himself, could best Ratchet in The Contest, but Footie—if Footie retained his 2iC status today, a'course, he might not —Footie, Roadbuster was pretty sure, couldn't. A bonded pair were both given the status of the higher-ranking mech, so Jackie might find himself elevated whether he wanted to be or not. A'course, Ratchet would always stand as his champion.

But right now Ratchet was not in the mix, and would not be present. "Since it's unlikely you'll kill yourselves and I've seen several of these Contests, I'm sending the other medics. They've never seen one, and Jazz said he could arrange a feed," he'd said, and Jackie must have known that beforehand as he didn't look disappointed.

With Ratchet not a Contestant, the loser of the first Contest would Contest against Leadfoot, who was at present Roadbuster's second in command, and Rodi or Jackie would Contest against Topspin, at the moment second-lowest on the totem pole, although Jackie was likely simply to accept Topsy's preeminence. If a third Contest were necessary, which would happen if both Footie and Topsy lost, it would again be the loser of that second Contest against the winner of the third.

Roadbuster honestly didn't know if he himself would win or not. He had a good chance to, he thought, mostly because The Contest wasn't only about strength. A bot could get mods for that. The Contest measured a bot's skill and speed and smarts just as much as his power; experience counted a lot, and that's where he had a big advantage over Bulk...but then Bulk had been with Excellion through all those adventures. He decided he still didn't know who would win.

Rodi, now, that was going to be interesting. If he thumped Jackie too hard in The Contest, Roadbuster would make it his business to remonstrate with the young bot, Prime candidate or no.

"Remonstrate with" was not actually the phrase Roadbuster used to himself; he thought "pound the struts right out of" instead. If you were not a Wrecker, you didn't mess with Jackie. If you were...you still didn't mess with Jackie. Wheeljack did stuff for the Wreckers the rest of them couldn't, not safely anyway.

Roadbuster smiled into his cube. Probably, in all the long vorn the mech had been with them, that was the first time he had been able to think "Wheeljack" and "safely" in the same sentence.

He finished his ration about the time Steeljaw gulped the last of his own. They left quarters together, Steelie wriggling with pleasure over meeting other bots, along with those few humans who did not give him a very wide berth.

End Part 18


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimers in Part 1

When Roadbuster reached that part of the Wreckers' work site which had been set aside for and modified into the site of The Contest, he found Bulkhead in casual conversation with Ironhide outside the entrance to the labyrinth in which The Contest would take place.

That labyrinth had been built to Wheeljack's specifications. That is, Wheeljack had used his knowledge of the other Wreckers to suggest contents and layout, and Ironhide had designed and built it. Should Jackie choose to enter into The Contest, the labyrinth would be as much of a surprise to him as to the other Wreckers.

When The Contest was over, the structure would serve as an urban training area for NEST, all of Optimus' people, and the Pretenders. Reconfigured, it would also be used for further Contests.

On this bright, sunny, cold morning, though, the Wrecker coding kicked in, and Roadbuster metaphorically pinned his ears back. "Ironhide," he said shortly. To Bulkhead, he snapped, "You cheatin'?"

Ironhide, who approved of the Wreckers, eyed him benignly. "Nothin' like that, Roadie," he said. "Bulk's kinda related to Chromia's cohort because the cohort that raised him accepted a member of the cohort that raised her. We was just chattin' about family."

"Oh," Roadbuster said. He and Bulkhead continued to exchange stinkoptic.

"All right, you two," Ironhide said, good humor underlying the order. "Go to your corners."

Other bots were finding places to sit that would allow them to follow The Contest through video feeds from each contestant.

Humans and bots alike had loaned various personal televisions for the occasion, each of which now bore a label that said "Property of." The sets were wired together at a table over which Jazz presided, and then mounted on poles at intervals in front of charging stands for bots, and plank-and-pipe seating erected by the Pretenders for humans.

The other Wreckers were banned from watching; it would give them some idea of the layout and challenges posed by the arena. Except for Jackie, Earth's sept of Wreckers was involved in a noisy (after all, they were Wreckers) game of redfletch, basically bridge with an extra suit that trumped the declared trumps. Meanwhile Jackie, patience incarnate, was teaching Hot Rod how to get his skidplate handed to him over a game of Strateka. The Tiny Trine had gathered around them to watch, as Rodi's skill level was not too far beyond their own.

All this happened beyond the temporary bleachers.

The Wreckers could have peeked at the TV screens but they did not do that; it wasn't in their best interests. On Cybertron, their dangerous work had shaped their coding: if a clan or sept leader was killed at work, it devolved upon the second-in-command to get the rest of them to safety.

That meant that the mech who chosen as 2iC had to be almost as highly-skilled as his leader, because in an instant he could become that leader. Same went for the 3iC and the 4iC. If disaster began poking its unclean fingers into a Wreckers' worksite, surviving members needed the best, the strongest and the wiliest, to lead them away from it. The Contest showed them who that was.

Therefore, they weren't peeking.

Ironhide watched the two Contestants return to the other Wreckers, and moved into the labyrinth for last-minute checks.

The Pretenders had been assigned to him for the work of building it; the first part of that task had been moving the tangle of wreckage left by Soundwave's crew to the worksite. He told them, "You can leave the biggest stuff to me, unless you work out a way to move it yourselves." They'd done that...and when it came time to unload it, he watched for a bit, and then, single-handedly, lifted out the largest piece of wreckage.

It nearly caused a mutiny in the ranks. "We had that covered," said Kirsch, a non-com after Ironhide's own spark, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"I know you coulda done it, but wasn't it easier to let the big bot move the big stuff? See, size ain't particularly a virtue. It's just a thing about you. Big bots got more leverage just because they've got longer, heavier struts, an' thicker cables. You guys can get into places I can't, and do things that're too small for my servos. We each got somethin' to contribute here, so let's find a way to use what we each got." He'd smiled at them. "More efficient that way."

He watched that penetrate twenty-five helms, and they all went back to work. He knew he'd won when, down to the largest wreckage, Kirsch said, "'Scuse me, Ironhide, wanna give us a hand here?"

So now, under the cover of the largeish cave Wheeljack had cheerfully blown into the far end of the cliff that also held bot and (someday, if Lennox had anything to say about it) human quarters, Ironhide went through what looked like war-torn city streets, littered with piles of wreckage that sometimes held booby traps within them. Meticulously, he tested and reset each of the traps, moving on to the traps in the building fronts.

Job done, Ironhide joined the spectators. Chromia leaned into him on one side, Evanon between them, and on the other, Diarwen held onto Optimus' collar fairing, which seemed to please them both; surrounded by family, Ironhide relaxed.

The Prime rose as Milestrina approached; giving her a courtly bow, he showed her to the seat next to himself.

Barricade and Flareup escorted the Tiny Trine to seats nearby, but almost immediately there was a fuss: the mechlings took off to sit with their "twins"; Song, deprived of Borealis' company, sought out Dr. Parker and Johnny, and soon collected Annabelle and Amaranth as well.

Five minutes later, all of them, sparklings and children alike, Miko included, were sitting in Ironhide's did not ask permission to board; they simply assumed it.

::How do you do that?:: Optimus pinged him.

::It's my superpower,:: Ironhide replied. ::It can't be taught.::

Optimus, whom Skimmer was presently climbing, snorted. ::You may not have to.::

Skimmer said, "Optimus, I got a question."

"Yes, Skimmer?"

"How come everybody's out here watchin' two grownup bots get in a fight, an' that's okay, but Stormy an' I get yelled at if we do it?"

Beside the Prime, Milestrina stirred, and Optimus smiled. "I believe that our Elder Conservator might have a better answer for that than I do. Milestrina?"

"Thank you, Optimus. Why don't all of you come here and sit with me for a moment?"

The human children arranged themselves right along with the Seekerlets. Milestrina, Barricade, Ironhide, Optimus, and Diarwen all smiled for the sight, and four of the five saved the video file. "First of all," the Conservator said, "do all of you know what a Wrecker is?"

"Bots that wreck stuff," Stormy said.

"They did a lot of that on Cybertron, but mostly they built cities where the wreckage used to be. Did you know that?"

Annabelle Lennox asked, "But why did they need to wreck stuff to build it?"

Amaranth Lennox, who at almost-five read quite a lot of anthropological news, said, "Human people do that too. Everywhere there's a city, there's an old city below it, and an even older city below that. I'll bet it was the same on Cybertron."

"Correct!" said Milestrina. "Now, on Cybertron, the Wreckers went into uninhabited areas and reclaimed all the salvageable materials for use on the surface. They had to take things apart, but leave enough of the structure in place that what they left didn't fall down on them, or collapse under the weight of the buildings above. So they had to be very smart, as well as very strong."

She waited until she saw that penetrate two little helms. Milestrina was not the first to understand that Song was always about a step and a half ahead of her brothers.

She gathered all the sparklings' attention, and continued, "Because of that, it takes a very smart, very strong bot to lead the Wreckers. And any time there are two possible leaders of a clan, the Wreckers have to hold The Contest to see which of the leaders will be responsible for the entire clan. That's what our Wreckers are doing today. Who can tell me who the leader of the Wreckers is?"

Amaranth and Annabelle Lennox said together, "Roadbuster."

"And who is the other mech who might also be able to lead the clan?"

"Bulkhead," Starskimmer answered.

"Right! So those two, as the leaders of their septs, have to Contest to see who will lead the united clan."

Amaranth said, "Is a sept a part of a clan?"

"Yes, that's right. Who can tell me how a clan is different from a cohort?"

A resounding silence greeted this question, though from the way the Tiny Trine looked at each other, then at Barricade and Flareup, it seemed they knew the answer but weren't sure how to put it into words.

Milestrina said patiently, "A cohort is a small family group. A sept is composed of several cohorts whose members are often related to one another, or who work the same jobs. A clan may be composed of several septs and many cohorts that don't belong to any sept, just to the clan. In Cybertron's past, a small settlement might be composed of a few cohorts or one sept of a clan. Large cities were home to many clans."

"Oh," Amaranth said, in the tone of voice that lets the hearer know that connections have been established in the processor, whether wetware or hardware. Milestrina smiled at her.

"So today, we're watching Roadbuster and Bulkhead find out who is best qualified to keep all of their family safe. Now do you see," Milestrina said, "why Roadbuster and Bulkhead have to fight?"

"Yes," Stormy said, incurably honest, "but I don't see why we can't. I know Skimmer's our leader. We just like to fight."

Jazz spared everyone the necessity of sorting that out by saying, "Ready whenever you are, Boss Bot."

Optimus smiled for Jazz' irreverence. It helped to keep him grounded—and he suspected that might have been part of the reason Jazz did it. "Come along," he said to the sparklings of varied species, as Evanon had now joined them, "let's go introduce The Contest, if you want to."

"I shall wait here, I believe," Diarwen said, and accepted the lift down.

"We'll wait with you," Amaranth said. "We don't want you to be alone."

"I'll wait too," Song said.

Skimmer and Stormy shared some communication, and Skimmer said to Optimus, "What's right to do?"

Optimus let the young Seeker feel his approval, and answered, "If you come with me, you will be honoring the Wreckers by helping me to introduce The Contest. If you stay here, it will be seen as modest on your part to remain out of the spotlight."

Skimmer shuttered. "How can we help you?" he said, although his phrasing put the two pronouns into italics.

"You could introduce me."

Two small Seekers angled their helms to peer suspiciously up at Optimus. "Everybody already knows who you are," Stormy objected.

Optimus smothered a laugh, and Diarwen nearly blew out her eardrums doing the same. "Yes, but if you liked, Stormy, you could welcome everyone to The Contest, and then Skimmer could simply say my name. There are some things I have to say to satisfy the Wreckers' coding around The Contest."

"Oh." Skimmer considered; there was some communication between the brothers. Then he said, "Can we sit on your shoulder and just watch?"

"Yes, if you wish."

"I feel safe with you," Skimmer said, and flapped himself into his chosen position, Stormy taking up a place on Optimus' other pauldron.

Ironhide grinned at Optimus, and sent, ::Looks like you got the power after all.::

Seekers aboard, Optimus went to the center of the ring formed by Jazz' table and the seating arrangements. "Welcome, everyone," he said, and the buzz of chatter died away. "Today we are here to bear witness to The Contest, a ritual held among the Wrecker clans of Cybertron. This ritual is meant to determine who among the Wreckers should lead the clan. Roadbuster's sept arrived with us here on Earth. When Excellion landed, he brought with him Bulkhead's sept. Bulkhead must now contest against Roadbuster to lead the united clan. The loser of this Contest will then find his place among the clan through further Contest, which I have been told will take the form of the human sport called 'arm-wrestling.'"

He waited while the shouts and cheering from NEST (and two Seekers who were uncomfortably close to his audials) died down, then continued: "Were we not under the necessity of rationing our energon, the Wreckers would have staged multiple Contests such as Roadbuster and Bulkhead are undergoing today to settle the order of precedence within the clan. I am told that we may look forward to seeing this in the future, when our stores of energon have increased. Ladies, gentlemen, femmes, mechs, I give you: Roadbuster and Bulkhead!"

Their respective septs had put in hours of work to polish the two Contestants, Diarwen found herself thinking, as Optimus lifted her to his shoulder; Stormy was a few feet from her, almost on the edge of the Prime's arm. She lifted an arm in invitation, and he slid over to sit next to her.

Bulkhead was olive green, not a color that responds positively to polish, but even he had a bit of shine to him. Roadbuster, emerald green, glimmered in the wan desert sun.

All the members of both sects, in fact, bore the unmistakable signs of paying attention to how they looked. That was a first for the Wreckers, in Optimus' experience.

Diarwen said, "How will the arm-wrestling work? I was under the impression that only a formal Contest could settle the order within the septs or clans."

"That is a good question, but one we have no answer for," Optimus said. "I gather that the rationing to provide for this Contest was sufficient privation that they will try settling the others' order in the sept with arm wrestling, but no one knows if that will satisfy the coding or not."

She cocked her head at him, which never failed to make him smile. "I have seen the NEST soldiers settle differences that way, but there did not seem to be much strategy involved. Also the larger man seemed to have a great advantage."

"There are ways to mitigate that. Ratchet and Wheeljack put a great deal of thought into setting up that part of The Contest: just as does The Contest itself, the Wrecker's version of arm-wrestling will require both skill and strength. One without the other will not succeed. And Ratchet taught all of them, in an open class, some of the strategies involved. We will see who triumphs, and whether Wrecker coding can be satisfied with this substitution."

"Yes," Diarwen said thoughtfully, "that will be the real question, won't it. Is that why the other Wreckers are being so scrupulous about staying out of the range in which they might see the televisions?"

"Yes. They are persons of great integrity, Diarwen."

"So they must be."

The two Contestants had by now walked into the area in front of the entrance to the labyrinth (taking the long way round) to exchange a glower and a nod with one another. Roadbuster, as incumbent clan head, entered first, and one half-breem later, Bulkhead followed.

Once both were in, their helm-cams activated, and the crowd hushed. In the corner of each feed was a wide shot of the area the mech was in, with Bulkhead now entering the center of the area shown. Roadbuster was in another area deeper within the labyrinth.

It made the screens a little busy, as they were vertically divided to show each Contestant's helm-cam feed, and the room cam took up a chunk out of the bottom left of that.

From the spectators' point of view, Bulkhead walked into the center of the room and stopped, turning his helm this way and that.

Stormy said, "What's he doing?"

Optimus replied, "I cannot tell. Exciting, is it not?"

"Well, not really," Stormy said, incurably honest, and the laughter in Optimus' fields was met and matched by that in Diarwen's. (Barricade's fields reflected the horror of being held responsible for what your kid has just said, a frequent state of fields-or-aura for the parent of any outspoken small one.)

Whatever Bulkhead had done, it bore fruit: he moved off purposefully in one of the three directions available to him.

Roadbuster's half of the feed showed him in another room, quietly removing the fork from a motorcycle wrecked in Soundwave's raid by unscrewing the bolts that held it in place. He rolled each bolt in his palms to make a small steel bolus of it, and laid the result neatly aside. He pinched off extra bits and rolled them too, along with any stray bolts he could pick up. The small accumulation went into subspace.

Last, he removed a tire and, with precision, cut a part of it free. Then Roadbuster attached it to the fork through the simple expedient of tying knots in each end of the rubber, and double-folding the ends of the metal arm-pieces down over the straps just above those knots.

Slingshot assembled, Roadbuster went hunting.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Bulkhead was having a nice time in the labyrinth, contentedly contemplating the mayhem to come, when a small "plink" sounded ahead of him, and to his left: at the top of a pile of scrap.

There shouldn't have been a sound over there... Roadbuster was this way, and the sound came from that way. Bulkhead's HUD was green across the board, so it wasn't a malfunction of his audials: he wasn't hearing things.

Just to be sure, though, he backtracked Roadbuster's trail, and sure enough the freshest trace was in the direction he thought

All righty then. If someone was playing the fool, the best strategy was to fool the fool. Bulkhead moved in the direction of the noise.

Bulkhead, though, was a larger mech than Roadbuster, and sharply aware that if he were not careful about where he was led, the advantages of his size and mass could be neutralized, or even turned against him. Therefore, prior to entering any new area, he stopped, waited a moment, backstepped a bit, and then after a brief wait moved forward.

This small dance allowed him to find Roadbuster, still behind him, and scan the area he was being led into for size.

The room was clear, and the sept leader was closing. Bulkhead grinned, and moved further into the large space.

"Why's he grinnin'?" Skimmer asked Optimus.

"I do not know. We can ask him later."

"Why can't we ask the other Wreckers now?"

"Remember, they are staying away so that they will be unfamiliar with the arena for their own Contests."

"Oh," Skimmer said, disappointment writ large in his tone. But the room-cams showed Bulkhead's back turned to an approaching Roadbuster, and Skimmer grabbed hold of Optimus' audial in his renewed excitement. Ow: talons.

Roadbuster was making a final approach to Bulkhead: twenty feet away, ten, five, three... He made no move that could be labeled "surreptitious," but his motion was calm, collected, and above all quiet. Three, two and a half...

He jumped. Bulkhead spun to meet him, and the audio feed picked up the noise of one large and one very large mech meeting chest-to-chest after leaping at one another to the accompaniment of a mutually-uttered "Arrrrgggh!" The cameras themselves rattled, and dust rose up from the floor of the arena.

Bulkhead's greater mass won the first encounter. Roadbuster went over on his back, but used Bulkhead's momentum to propel the sept leader on over Roadbuster's own helm. They rolled into a standing position, and gathered themselves; the spectators did not see either one speak, but both hunched slightly, and their helms met with an enormous "Booom!"

The feed from the helm-cams went black, unsurprisingly.

Jazz said, "Fraggitall anyway, those morons have broken their helm-cams! Optimus, can you send 'em a ping? I gotta get in there and fix that!"

"I fear we must do without the helm-cams, Jazz. Stopping The Contest, in the absence of injury to either Contestant, will invalidate the result."

Jazz did some muttering that probably was even less polite than "Fraggitall anyway," and went to work, digits flying over his setup. The room-cam feeds expanded to fill their respective halves of the screen.

When they expanded, the feeds showed two views of both Contestants on their hands and knees, shaking their helms, Roadbuster rising to his peds only when Bulkhead was already up.

They circled each other warily. Suddenly, Bulkhead spun on one ped and raced off into the labyrinth, but Roadbuster did not pursue him; instead, he carefully scouted the area he was left alone in, then moved on into the next. He spent quite a while in each room, touching nothing, looking at everything.

"This's boring," Stormy said suddenly.

Skimmer said thoughtfully, "I think that Bulkhead could have won right there if he hit Roadbuster again like he did the first time. I wonder why he didn't do that?"

"Probably," Song said from Milestrina's lap, "'cause that would have hurt Roadbuster, an' they aren't supposed to hurt each other."

Bulkhead continued moving from room to room. It might have seemed random, but wasn't: one room-cam watched him leave and another, in the room he was entering, watched him launch himself at Roadbuster, who was quick enough to evade him by lurching to one side and pivoting on a ped to sprint off into yet another room: "That's gonna be interestin'," Ironhide said, thoughtfully. "There's only one way in or outta that one."

Bulkhead followed, and went directly toward the pile of scrap that Roadbuster was hidden behind. This time, though, Roadbuster was prepared; Bulkhead hove into view and Roadbuster launched himself at the sept leader.

Transformers are not "handed," and so both punched with equal force from either side. Bulkhead was larger and more heavily armored than Roadbuster, so olive-green armor withstood more and heavier blows than emerald-green before crumpling. But crumple it did, as Roadbuster, without seeming to stop to think about it, chose vulnerable points to attack.

Bulkhead jolted him with a single blow to the chest, which stopped Roadbuster in his tracks and in fact forced him back a step. But Roadbuster bent his helm and shoulders down in what Diarwen was already beginning to think of as the "Wrecker offensive crouch," and returned the blow, hard enough that Bulkhead's chestplate deformed.

Bulkhead was now between Roadbuster and the door. They exchanged more blows, and Optimus admired the way Roadbuster was maneuvering Bulkhead: a little to the left, a thump on the pauldron exchanged for a hit to the femoral strut, a crunching blow to the abdominal plates traded for one that landed right below and to the left of the left collar strut, a poke to the nose dealt in retaliation for a kick to the ankle structure, a feint (and yet another thunderous exchange of blows) to the left, and Roadbuster spun to the right and was out the door of that room before Bulkhead had fully recovered his balance.

At this point the two Wreckers did not resemble the clean and shiny mechs whom the spectators had cheered that morning. They were two battle-drawn and bashed-up survivors of some deep and ancient war between rival houses, neither of whom would ever give up. Most of the spectators were thinking that they would still be glued to borrowed TV sets until the following Tuesday.

Then Roadbuster, waiting in the next room, revved himself until his carburetor roared, and after stepped to one side ... just before Bulkhead entered the room and went directly to the exhaust-laden niche in which Roadbuster had chosen to rev himself. But Roadbuster, now concealed to Bulkhead's left, sprang out, hefted the massive mech clean over his head, and threw him, thrashing and shouting, directly into one of the scrap heaps lining the city streets.

It was also one of Ironhide's traps. Bulkhead's impact on it provoked it beyond endurance, and it triggered, which collapsed the pile of scrap onto Bulkhead, pinning him to the stone floor of the cave inside the cliff.

The Contest was over, and Roadbuster had won. The stands erupted in cheers.

Ironhide stood up and stretched. "Well, I better go get 'em outta there," he said. "Hey! Flattie!"

Flatbed, an enormous blue mech from Praxus who had arrived on Excellion, said, "Yeah, Hide, what is it?" He stood up, revealing himself to be the third-tallest mech on the base, after Silverbolt and Optimus.

"It wouldn't surprise me if them two lunkheads ain't able to walk. You wanna hang around a klik, an' give 'em a lift back to med bay if they can't?"

"Yeah, sure. You want me to come in and give you a hand?"

"Be pretty cramped quarters in there for you. I can drag 'em out if I haveta. I better go see what the damage is." He disappeared into the maw of the arena.

The room cams showed ten minutes of excavation, and two minutes after that of slow recovery on Bulkhead's part. Neither he nor Roadbuster could walk, exactly, but both of them could lean on Ironhide and stagger.

They staggered as far as the door of the arena, where they were met with a storm of camera-clicks, quickly followed by wild applause and the enthusiastic shouts of all NEST personnel present, along with a mighty beating of hands and servos together.

Bulky wasn't quite with the program yet, Ironhide figured, but Roadie reached across him for the other mech's servo, and held it high in his own.

The crowd went not just crazy, but batshit insane. They didn't give the two Wreckers a simple standing ovation, no: this was more like a jumping-up-and-down, shouting-at-the-top-of-your-lungs, pounding-your-neighbor-on the-shoulder, and-incidentally-clapping-as-hard-as-you-can ovation.

The two Wreckers grinned at each other, then bowed from the waist, which was only slightly spoiled when Bulkhead staggered and would have fallen if Flatbed hadn't caught him.

End Part 19


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimers in Part 1

Bulkhead and Roadbuster had a long walk ahead of them for the shape they were in, Ironhide thought, but they declined help from any but their fellow Wreckers. Jazz shut down his feeds, and all the Wreckers flooded into the arena forecourt.

There was, as there always was when Wreckers were sorting themselves out, a certain amount of loud muddle. At the end of it, Steeljaw had happily wriggled himself almost comatose, Roadbuster was leaning on Rodi and Wheeljack, and Topspin and Leadfoot were supporting Bulkhead.

This caravan limped its way to medbay, Jolt, following Ratchet's orders, trailing in its wake, and keeping one set of sensors out for the two Contestant's fields.

Somewhere along the line, Roadbuster and Bulkhead abandoned their other helpers, and limped into medbay leaning on one another's shoulders, both in a condition that Ratchet had occasionally immortalized in his Doctor's Notes as "Beat to exhaust fumes."

The medic said only, "Well, who won?"

The two looked at one another, and then Roadbuster helped Bulkhead up onto an exam table before he said, "We all did. I get to make the clan decisions, though."

Rodi had to help Roadbuster up onto a table of his own.

"All right, the rest of you, shoo," Ratchet said good-humoredly. "Except you, Jack, I might need an extra set of servos in here."

"All right," Wheeljack said, and to the young bot's surprise, knelt to Rodi. "I submit to you, Hot Rod, in all matters of clan and sept," he said, and Hot Rod, his programming coming to the fore, laid one servo gently on top of Jack's helm and said, "Wheeljack, I accept your submission."

Ratchet found himself oddly moved, but covered it nicely by shouting, "All right, now, _out_!"

He assigned himself and Moonracer, who had poked her helm around the door and asked if she could help, to Bulkhead, and Jolt and Wheeljack to Roadbuster, and they got to work.

Outside medbay, there occurred the usual Wrecker-induced madness. Hot Rod could have given Wheeljack a pretty good clip upside the head without any repercussion from the other Wreckers but who understood in a flash that his Prime candidacy forbade that, received a certain amount of grief over his lack of killer instinct. Shortly he found himself in an arm-wrestling contest with Topspin, to see which of them would be next up the ladder from Wheeljack.

They'd taken over a Cybertronian-height table in the galley area, and almost immediately acquired an interested circle of hangers-on, some human, some not. Politely, the Wreckers moved the chairs away from the table.

Rodi planted his elbow and grinned at Topspin, who returned the grin and grasped his servo, planting his own elbow. Leadfoot, the most senior member of the clan present, made sure their grips were correct, shouted, "Go!" and flipped his servos away.

Topspin relaxed a cable in his wrist, Rodi attempted to exploit this weakness, the far stronger cables in Topsy's forearm flexed, and he back of Rodi's wrist hit the table with a clang.

His coding, satisfied, settled, and the vague irritation he had been feeling around Topsy for the last couple of weeks evaporated. Hot Rod went to his knees and made submission, first to Topspin, then also to Leadfoot.

And Optimus, observing from his office, smiled. One's own lack of invincibility was never a bad thing for a Prime candidate to learn.

That left one, possibly two, bits of business unsettled. As soon as Ratchet came out of the medbay and said to the Wreckers, "You can come in and see them now," medbay was as full of Wreckers as it could possibly get. Because nobot yelled at him to get out, Steeljaw nosed Roadbuster, whom he judged to be still Roadbuster, and trotted off grinning to impose himself upon Moonracer, whom he had not met yet.

Bulky, helped down by Ratchet, made submission to Roadbuster.

Leadfoot presented himself to Bulkhead, and said, "You got new welds anywhere in your arm struts?"

"Nope," said Bulkhead, and set his elbow on the exam table.

Arm-wrestling contests are not so much fun to watch as two mechs beating one another to slag. Bulky and Footie grunted and strained, and then slowly, slowly, Footie's wrist neared the table, then, with a huff of effort, raised up again. Near, grunt, raise; near, grunt, raise. Bulkhead suddenly did something that Ratchet characterized as "flexing his entire frame," and Footie's arm hit the table much as Rodi's had done.

The order of the clan was settled. The Wreckers' fields all stabilized, and Steeljaw, feeling it as much as did the others, looked at all his bots, including the two new ones, and wagged himself. Muuuuuch better.

"You slagger," Roadbuster said to Bulkhead, "you never told us you were trained as an olfactory tracker."

"Wasn't trained, just got the mods for it pretty late in the war. And," he grinned, "once I was here, I sorta kept quiet about 'em, once I figured we'd haveta have The Contest. Wouldn't have if they were needed, but they wasn't."

Roadbuster relaxed. It had seemed to him that nobody quite appreciated how up on the quicktake Footie actually was; he wasn't as strong as Topsy, but that speed of processing ensured that he was second in the clan hierarchy to Topsy's third. He should have known that Bulky wouldn't be any slouch in that department, either. "You're a cunning slagger," was all he said.

Bulkhead, second-in-command of the Earth clan of Wreckers, grinned.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It wasn't exactly after hours yet when a very tall shadow fell across Ratchet's desk.

"What are you doing here?" the medic said brusquely, not precisely unkind. This one wasn't his worst patient; Ironhide held that distinction, with Walker Mayhall running a distant second. Mayhall won the 'tude contest hands down, and would have been closer in this race, but his frame hadn't accumulated Ironhide's many vorn of abuse and overuse.

Yet.

"Ummm...I need some help."

The medic rose. "Are you in pain?"

"No, Ratchet, not that kind of help. I need some mods, and I don't even know how to go about asking for them."

"What...kind...of mods?"

His patient's circulation flowed extra coolant across his cheek plates: he "blushed."

An unholy amusement lit Ratchet's optics. "Oh. I see."

"I have not told you—"

"And you thought you'd have to? Primus, mech, I'm not stupid. In fact I am intelligent enough to know I can't stop you from expanding your personal horizons. Wouldn't dream of it if I could. Therefore, I have two ideas for you. One is to search Amazon's 'Health and Personal Care' section, and the other is to Google 'marital aids.'" The medic paused. "You might be able to save some time if you just used 'sex toys' as the search term in both places, though, come to think of it."

There was a long, fraught silence, and much more blushing. Then, "I'd need mods to utilize those things," his patient said.

"I can do that right now, if you like."

"What had you in mind?"

"A digital extensor, that's all. Properly sized to accommodate your new friend's friends."

"Ratchet, please."

But Ratchet was merciless. "You have Amazon Prime, right, or she does? So if I do one tonight, it'll have time to heal, and I'll do the other servo tomorrow night. Next day the fun will arrive, and you'll be able to—"

"Ratchet!"

There was a definite warning in the tone, which meant that Ratchet had won. To the winner go the spoils: "I'd also like to have you talk to Pierpoint about the, ah, accommodations possible on both sides. Some of his guys are getting pretty restless, he says."

But enough is enough. His patient had enough starch left in him to say, "If I do so, you will not be present."

"Fair enough," the medic said peaceably, fully intending to get the file from Pierpoint. "This way, Optimus."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Strika, despite herself, was impressed.

She had put considerable energy into terrorizing their enslaved medic. She knew how that usually went: eventually, the slaves became so beaten down that they lost interest in performing their duties, which allowed her to terrorize them all over again: this time into doing just that. They became automatons at that point, much easier to deal with as they lost all hope of rescue or even survival. Getting through the day without getting beaten became their top priority.

But Sawbones had never succumbed to her. He put her beatings to one side, as it were, labeling them unimportant.

Strika did not like to be labeled unimportant, and as a result she mistrusted Sawbones deeply. But she had within her Flock no other bot able to perform, or even check up on, his work.

Once, enraged by him, she had beaten the medic unconscious, and lost a member of her Flock when he couldn't be roused in time to treat the bot. Strika was above all things practical, and that incident restrained the worst of her excesses toward Sawbones.

Pain rippled through her wing. "Ow, blast you!" she snarled, and raised a clenched servo.

"If you allowed me to turn off the sensors, you would not have to endure this," Sawbones said, not even bothering to flinch.

She dropped the servo. Today, when she was first in the medic's presence, there had been something that leapt with glee in his fields. She didn't know what it was, but she would find out, and then remove it from his life. Although right now, because it was there, she would not allow him to turn off any of her wing sensors.

"You must have supplies to numb the pain!" she snapped. "Why don't you use them, you stupid slave!"

"We have been out for sixteen orn. I have filed three requests, and each has come back stamped 'Denied,' even after I attached an explanation of their role in shortening recovery times. Sit up, please, and extend your wing fully."

The wing ached, and she knew from experience that it would for the rest of the wakeful period. She sat up, and did what was asked of her.

"That's complete," the medic said, turning away. "Please consider filling the next request I send in for numbing agent."

She backhanded him into a corner, and swept out.

Sawbones watched the error messages scroll past his HUD. When it was green across the board, he climbed back up to his peds, and considered the source of his glee: Borealis was beyond Strika's reach, and he had helped the gravid Seeker to escape her.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Strika strode through the corridors of Darkmount, heel thrusters clicking against the stone at every step. She had made herself learn the exact sequence which laid her wings into their "normal" position, even though this was usually a subroutine so deeply buried in Seeker coding that most were not aware of it. Knowing it consciously, though, she could now place her injured wing in its "normal" position...and mute the sensors which barked. She was not visibly injured as a result.

It was best never to seem vulnerable, a lesson she had long ago internalized at Megatron's servos.

Her retinue, which had been waiting for her at the door to medbay, fell in behind her. One of them was yattering something at her: "Please, great lady, it would be so much comfort to my wingmate as she recovers were you to do this thing for us. She yearns to take to the skies for you—"

"No," she said, neither slowing nor stopping. "Do not request it of me again, though I do not forbid you to acquire it for yourself."

Her attention had been so far distracted that she had not even recorded what "it" was. Probably, that didn't matter. Most of her Flock would not make such a personal request of her in the first place, knowing that she saw such as weakness.

Skyquake and Dreadwing were standing in the archway that led to their aerie, watching her. They had taken the loss of Borealis more calmly than she herself, Strika thought, and watched as Dreadwing turned to speak to the other half of his spark. Skyquake shook his head in response.

The two locked optics, and wouldn't she be happy to be in on that twin-bond communication. But spark-split twins' first loyalty was to one another; how could it be elsewise? They had never joined her retinue, but they bore her mark, and she had no reason to doubt their loyalty. Their deadliness in combat—two halves of one spark meant one fighter, essentially, in two places at the same time. They were worth about five untwinned fighters.

Well, it had to do with her, whatever it was they were communing over: they had pinned their optics to her, and were obviously waiting for her.

She neither quickened nor slowed her step. "Dreadwing, Skyquake," she said shortly.

"WInglord." They fell into step beside her, Dreadwing staring straight ahead, Skyquake shooting his optics at her from time to time.

So predictable. She half-turned her head to him, and said, "What is it, Skyquake?"

"We wish to continue searching for Borealis."

_So_ predictable. "I do not see what good that would do. She has eluded us, for the time being."

Dreadwing rumbled into speech. "We can search the possible jump-points she might have gone to, and two Seekers can do that much more quickly and efficiently than the whole flock."

And make their own energon while they were at it. But no one said that.

Strika considered. Having her sparklings under her wing again would be a great comfort; as for Borealis, she would in fact reinstate the twins' house, but at the cost of disbonding Borealis...who would then be at Strika's mercy, and find out that such did not exist.

Against that, her two best fliers, the only twins among her Flock, would be out of reach, unable to return swiftly if needed. But would they be needed?

On Darkmount's planet, the local organics were barely out of their primitive phase. They had discovered the wheel and water-power, but nothing else, were even pre-ballistic. _They_ were not a threat, and the other organics, who came either to trade with or to exploit the locals (Strika hadn't cared enough to find out which), had a very low level of technology themselves. Enough to create some fairly respect-worthy blades: but if it was all done with nothing more than muscle, fire, and water power, they too could pose no threat.

Nonetheless, being Strika, she considered the pleasure of turning the twins down in no uncertain terms...but against that there was the reward of having Borealis at her mercy.

And her sparklings, of course, three fresh troops. Inexperienced, but time would cure that very swiftly.

They reached the throne room, and the slaves opened the door for her.

She said, striding down the carpet upon which only she walked, "What was the range of her ship? Find that out, and limit your search to that radius at each jump point. While you are gone, I will continue observation of these people who have opened some kind of travel portal just a little too close to Darkmount for comfort."

"Very well," Dreadwing said. Of the twins, he was the one who followed strategic thinking most easily.

Strika mounted her throne and sat down. "Just as a question, though, why do you want her back?"

They blinked, first individually, then at one another. Then Skyquake said, hesitantly, "Because we bear her some affection," at about the same time Dreadwing said, "Because she is ours."

"She is not much of a warrior."

"We don't care," Skyquake said.

A half-beat later, Dreadwing said shyly, "She is my reason to keep fighting. Even though she puzzles and sometimes angers me, I wish to keep her safe."

Even his brother balked at that. "That's not like you," Skyquake said.

Dreadwing said, simple as only a very unemotional bot can be, "I keep us safe, and it is your job to keep her happy."

"She needs that from both of us, Wing, just like I need to keep us all safe as much as you do."

But Dreadwing, to Strika's annoyance, only grunted in return. The conversation was over.

"Very well," she said, "I will do this. Recapturing Borealis and my sparklings is a strategic goal, but one that cannot be initiated until she is found. However, you must limit your search to the first four levels of space-bridge connections. If you cannot locate her in that search, return. I may be prepared to allow further search. On the other hand, circumstances may prevent it."

The two Seekers mantled their wings at her. Irritated, she waved a servo at them. "Get out," she said. "Think on it. It's the only offer I'm prepared to make, though, so think fast."

Strika put her elbow on her Throne, and her clenched servo under her chin. During the Golden Age, a vast network of space bridges had connected all points of the sprawling Cybertronian Empire. Strika doubted that more than a handful of bots were left alive who remembered those glory days.

During the decline, the hubs had gone down faster than the energon-strapped maintenance crews could reach them, and when the collapse had come, no more maintenance had been possible in any case.

Now, perhaps one in twenty was still active, only those close enough to stars to produce energon remaining online. Each connected to possibly thirty other hubs, but now only one or two of those would still be active.

Interstellar travel was still possible, but only by roundabout routes.

Still, four levels of connection would lead the twins to several active hubs, and most of those hubs were within reach of several places where one small Seeker might be hiding. Looking for their errant trinemate would keep the twins busy, and feeling as if they were accomplishing something. Who knew, they might even find her and return Strika's sparklings to her, if any of them survived—which she doubted, since their fool of a carrier had fled Sawbones' care.

Strika considered, and her retinue left her in peace to do so, knowing that the consequences of interrupting her were...severe.

There were, she thought, colonies out there whose locations were known, but the collapse of the space bridge network had left them too far away even for the long-lived Cybertronians to reach. Only warships capable of producing their own space bridge, like the Decepticons' _Nemesis_, could reach them any longer.

The _Nemesis_ was a treasure whose map she had.

But the _Nemesis_ was only one of the prizes to be found in that backwater system where Optimus Prime defeated the Fallen, Megatron, and Sentinel. The particular star he had found there also produced fine, clear energon.

Strika coveted both: the star for its potentially limitless energon, and the ship for bringing some of those outlying colonies back within her reach.

Now that the Autobots were weakened by the final battles of the Great War, the vaunted Prime was vulnerable. But Strika held no illusions of an easy victory. She knew herself for a formidable opponent, but she did not expect to win by main force where the Fallen and Megatron had failed.

Her listening post on Mars picked up video of the Battle of Chicago, and analysis of that video left her with near-complete certainty that Megatron and Sentinel had both been executed, and that Shockwave had fallen as well.

Her other source of intelligence was her sparkmate, Lugnut, a member of Soundwave's gang. She had influenced him to allow Soundwave to continue his machinations, and keep her apprised. It served her purposes to let Soundwave harry Optimus.

Lugnut was loyal to Soundwave because the spymaster had been loyal to Megatron. In hiding, their information was limited, and Soundwave did not share his plans with his underlings until they had a need to know. But what information Lugnut had been able to pass gave Strika hope. Lugnut had shown her his own memories of the raid on Optimus Prime's complex: as a source of information, those were priceless.

Coolly, Strika concluded that her best strategy was to allow Soundwave to continue scheming against the Prime, with all her outward support.

Some time ago, she convinced Lugnut that his survival was paramount, on the grounds that they could not avenge Lord Megatron if they, too, fell to the Prime.

Still, she could not know who would win the inevitable showdown between Soundwave and the Autobots. If Optimus Prime triumphed, it would more likely than not solidify his position with the humans, whose support was not to be underestimated. He might lose one or two of his frontliners, though, which would increase her own chances.

If Soundwave won, she would create the illusion that she served him as loyally as she once had served Megatron—but Soundwave was no Megatron. She would allow him to solidify Decepticon control of Earth, in the process incurring the fury of the indigenous population, while she led the Flock to reestablish the Empire. When the humans rose up and destroyed Soundwave in one of their periodic revolutions, in retaliation she would send her Flock to bomb them back to their Stone Age without opposition.

After, she would be the last Decepticon standing.

And then? Rightful order would be restored. The Flock would rule the Empire—and Strika would be its Wingleader.

End Part 20


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimers Part 1

Jazz tapped at Optimus' door. "Boss-bot? Got a question for you."

Gratefully, Optimus put away what his Spec Ops head had once called "administrivia." "What is it, Jazz?"

"Well, Ah'd kinda like to know what you think about one'a the Pretenders havin' applied to be a code analyst. Ah opened up the trainin' for that."

"I would have to know who, and I would have to know a lot about him."

Jazz slid a datapad across the desk. Optimus didn't bother looking at the name or the photos, simply opened it to the history.

Served with the 10th Mountain Division in Afghanistan. Wounded after an ambush, while he was carrying another comrade, wounded earlier, to safety. Twenty-four hours later, they reached an area where they could be evacuated by helo.

Discharged for medical reasons—getting out the shrapnel with which he had been struck had been an ongoing process right up until this candidate's "death"—the man returned to his hometown in Wyoming. He began work at his sister's computer installation and repair business. As a human, he had been a talented programmer.

Even with the necessity to deal with ongoing pain and recurrent surgeries, work alone hadn't been enough for him. He'd volunteered, helping other returning veterans with the adjustment to civilian life. Doing so, he'd discovered a talent for counseling. That led him to volunteer again, this time for a suicide-prevention hotline.

Then, in the last of his surgeries, he contracted MRSA, which damaged his heart. He joined the list of possible Pretenders.

"Unless somethin' comes up in the interview," Jazz said, "Ah'm leanin' toward acceptin' him. If you don't see anythin' there to make you think twice…"

"No," Optimus said, powering down the datapad after he glanced at the identifying information, "I do not. Emery McKuen proved his character on a mountainside in Afghanistan. —Did you discuss this with Prowl?"

"Yeah. He said maybe all of the candidates should have a code analysis done before they get too far along in their trainin', an' Ah kinda agree with that. Human shrinks have ta complete their own analysis before they practice; it's the same principle.

"He said that it's likely the Pretenders will need not just a medic, Pierpoint, but a mindhealer of their own as well. Not one of us knows what it's like ta be a Pretender, 'specially the way they got sparked.

"Now me, Ah think that th' first bot Ah'll ask McKuen ta analyze will be me, because Ah can knock him on his skidplate if Ah haveta, an' Ah will if he does anything he shouldn't." Jazz grinned.

"On condition that you are his first analysis, I see no reason to bar him from this training," Optimus said, and slid the datapad across the table.

Returning to his office, Jazz straightened it up a little; the interviews began today. Stacks of datapads vacated visitors' chairs, and more got moved off the desk—enough to let Jazz see the visitor sitting in one of those chairs, and let them see him.

The remaining Jazz-order (i.e., chaos to everyone else) on his desk stayed in place. Just in case Soundwave's crew dropped by.

He had previously cleared enough desktop real estate to put a human-sized desk and chair up there, and now he made sure there weren't bunches of junk—er, er, _randomly ordered occasional necessities_—stacked on the steps leading up to it.

Jazz turned on the datapad and closed the record containing McKuen's dossier, and sent the command to open the next one.

Sapphire was one of the high-caste younglings from Tyger Pax. Perceptor had recommended her. She had made herself useful in Excellion's medbay, and the small medic believed that she had the personality to make a good counselor. She was so young that her dossier held little besides school records, which revealed a shy, lackluster student whose marks had improved dramatically after her parents were kicked off Excellion.

Jazz thought she might not yet be sufficiently mature to do the work. But if she showed promise, he would start teaching her as he had Bumblebee, using material which was appropriate to her level. The next generation needed to start learning somewhere, after all, and medical training was never wasted: would not be even if Sapphire changed her mind about her function as she became an adult.

On Sapphire's encouragement, a mech who had formerly been a slave in her house had also applied. Seneschal was a contemporary of Ironhide's and Chromia's, and Sapphire said that he was the wisest and smartest bot she knew. Jazz had read the respect in her field, and decided that any former slave who had earned the respect of his erstwhile owner was worth at least a second look.

The optics looking back at him from the image in his dossier were the pale amber of a slave. That image, taken soon after they had landed, showed a bot who had suffered a lot of wear and tear. Jazz knew that Sunstreaker had been hard at work painting and refinishing any of the newly-arrived bots who needed it; some of the former slaves were getting it done for the first time in their lives. Jazz expected this mech looked a lot better now, but whether the wounds left by enslavement had left scars—that would take an interview to determine. Their presence would not necessarily bar Seneschal from analysis, but they would have to be dealt with first. Programming analysis was, of necessity, personally gruelling work.

Moonracer capped off the group. A little younger than Jolt, the novice medic had not yet chosen a specialty, and wanted to learn more about mindhealing. She was not fully apprenticed to Perceptor yet, and he had cheerfully agreed to let her go to Jazz if she decided this was the specialty for her.

Like Sapphire, Moonracer was young and untried. He would stick to the basics with her as well until he was sure she had the proper character to be trusted with knowledge that could be used to hack a mech as well as to heal him.

Jolt had thought long and hard about taking the training, actually having several pre-interview interviews with Jazz, but he had talent for working with electrical systems and for performing surgery. He also liked that work. When he heard that Jazz already had four promising applicants, he decided to stay where he was.

Before Jolt changed his mind, Ratchet assured Jazz it was fine to take on five apprentices at once if they all panned out. Back in Iacon when Ratchet had been running a clinic, he often had twice that number.

An apprenticeship had been the only route into the Science Academy for a lower-caste mech, and those such as Ratchet who had made good considered it their duty to teach other talented youngsters coming up.

After the Fall of Cybertron, the only way to gain a new skill was to learn it directly from someone who had mastered it. It was not only acceptable, but necessary, to train multiple apprentices at the same time.

Someone pinged the door. Habitually, Jazz checked the camera before opening it. McKuen came inside.

"C'mon up," Jazz said, gesturing at the human-sized desktop real estate. "Have a seat."

"Thank you." McKuen sat carefully, catering to a body which no longer needed it; Jazz had seen some of the other Pretenders do the same. They'd adjust, in time.

"So...ya decided to become a mindhealer. Why?"

McKuen sat relaxed, servos in his lap, and made eye contact. "After I got out of the Army on a medical, I did some volunteer work at the VA, phone bank at a suicide-prevention hotline. I liked that work, and my supervisors there said I was good at it."

"Yeah, Ah understand there's lots more suicides now among veterans."

"Active-duty and veterans both. The rate of it, the number per thousand," Emery McKuen said, sitting relaxed and talking to Jazz about something he was interested in, not himself, "is going through the roof, and there are a lot of reasons for that. One is a culture within the military that sees getting counseling as an admission of weakness. Another is a shortage of counselors who have done military service."

"What was th' hardest thing to learn?"

McKuen said thoughtfully, "I didn't find any part of it hard. I know that sounds egotistical, but it's mostly knowing when to listen, which is most of the time. I'm still using that training with the men in my unit. All of us have been through some tough times to get where we are now. Sometimes the guys just need somebody to listen to them."

Jazz said deliberately, "But programming glitches ain't the same, are they? After all, if a human has a bad experience, he or she can choose how to react to it?"

McKuen tilted his helm to one side: his was a large helm for a human, and when he was fully human, he had been a man with pale skin and crisply waved goldish hair. (If, of course, he'd scanned his late self for his first alt, but to Jazz' knowledge, the rest of the Pretenders had.) "To some degree, that's true. But anyone can be overwhelmed. We—humans, I mean—have found that illness, physical or social isolation, even diet can tip a person over into mental illness. But I'm a bit hesitant to draw a parallel between human issues and programming glitches, although I'd say that neither species can choose not to experience them. Sometimes, they just happen. That, though, that's about the extent of my knowledge of programming glitches, except in human-made computers."

"Yeah," said Jazz, who realized that he was beginning to like this Pretender, "we're a lot different. Our architecture's unique to Cybertronians, fer one thing."

"Yeah. I was talking to the Wreckers the other day, and they said that the way we think about the physical properties of materials? That's really not the way Cybertronians think about them at all." McKuen smiled at Jazz. "We have a lot to learn from, and teach, each other."

"Ongoin'," Jazz agreed. "So why did y'all apply for this?"

"Ratchet mentioned programming glitches in one of his lectures. He said that we were our own best defense against them, since sometimes only someone who knows a glitched bot well can tell that they're in trouble. I asked Doc—Pierpoint, I mean—about it later, and he said that it takes a medic with a lot of specialized training to fix problems like that. Doc says he can fix us if we bust a strut, but he's not a shrink. He says that of all of us in the unit, I'd be the best man for the job, and if you agree with him, I'd like to train for it."

Jazz frowned at him. "This ain't something to do without givin' it a lot of thought. You'll be getting training as a medic, so you'll be able to help Pierpoint with the busted struts, and act as a field medic 'til you can get a healer there. But your specialty is gonna be a combination of psychology an' brain surgery, t' put it in human terms. If somethin' life-sustaining goes wrong with a mech's core programming, you have a few klicks to fix it or lose that mech."

"So...I'll have to prioritize what I do right, the first time."

"Yep. And you'll be gettin' into a mech's memories, and the programming that makes him who he is. It's invasive in a way most humans never have t' think about. 'Forced telepathy' might be kinda parallel."

"Am I hearing you right that patient confidentiality is only the beginning of a programming analyst's responsibilities? That I'll have to have my own issues pretty well settled to do this?"

"Yes. Yer gonna be _inside that mech's mind_, and that ain't the half of it: the mech has access to you, too. Ya need t' protect yourself, because just like a bot with a physical injury might not recognize a medic an' lash out, same thing can happen with a mindhealer. Ain't nobot's fault, just core programming t' defend yerself. An' if they really don't want ya there, if they fight on purpose, they can really frag ya over if you got a weakness they can exploit. Ya gotta have all yer ducks in a row, like th' humans put it." Jazz paused. "That ain't all, neither. Look, you ask most mecha if they'd rather get shot or reprogrammed, and they're gonna haveta think about the answer. Once you have these skills, mecha are gonna always have that in mind about ya, that ya could if ya wanted to. It's gonna take an exceptionally strong person ta be yer friend, or yer lover, once ya have this training. Still sure ya wanna do this?"

Emery McKuen thought about it for a full quarter-breem, which satisfied Jazz on some level he hadn't really expected. Then McKuen took a deep in-vent. "Yeah, Jazz, I am. "

The head of Spec Ops smiled. "OK, then. Welcome aboard."

"Thanks. Where do I start?"

Jazz handed over a human-sized datapad. "There's several downloads on there with coding you'll need. Ah know what Ratchet told ya about accepting downloads, an' he's right. But sometimes you need ta upgrade yer coding for different things ya wanna do. Ah wrote these an' they're safe, but after ya get off duty Ah want ya take 'em to Ratchet anyhow and get him t' OK 'em before he helps ya install 'em. Then you'll have t' rest for a while, prolly about a half-joor, and let 'em integrate. After that, y'need to read the rest of the files an' be ready t' discuss 'em in class. Classes'll start in about a week, an' meet twice a week. There'll be a lotta heavy readin' at first, you're gonna need t' learn our programmin' language, and on toppa that ya gotta learn th' differences in coding between the major groups o' Cybertronians. Any questions?"

"I'm sure I'll have a million after I get into this."

"If ya get hung up, just ping me, and Ah'll get back to ya with an answer as quick as Ah can."

"Thanks. And, Jazz, thanks for giving me a chance. I know we didn't exactly put our best foot forward."

Jazz shook his head. "Over an' done with, my mech. All of us here, S14, NEST, the Cybertronians, we got th' same goal: keepin' this planet outta Decepticon hands. You wanna contribute ta that effort, an' alla you Pretenders got th' kinda history that says you do, you'll be welcomed."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Seneschal entered the room silently as Jazz put away his notes on McKuen's interview. As Jazz had expected, the former slave sported a new color scheme, deep forest green with gold highlights that emphasized his amber optics. It was the same pattern as before, but the washed-out green and yellow that Jazz had seen in that image taken shortly after Excellion's arrival had come to life.

That wasn't a metaphor. Sunstreaker had not been satisfied with a few coats of paint. He had given Seneschal a new layer of chromatophores, most likely cultivated from his own and then deprogrammed with an EMP flash so that, when painted onto a mech's bare plating, his repair nanites would give them that mech's own chosen colors. In the old days, a mech might save up for a vorn to have that done by an artist far less skillful than Sunstreaker.

More painstaking work had obviously followed it: small details applied or touched up, then several layers of protective finish, probably sanded between coats by Sideswipe.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had been slaves in the gladiator pits of Kaon. They knew what it had taken for them to be truly free, and now they would both go the extra mile to be sure that other freed slaves got whatever they needed to be free themselves.

The Big Twins' willing acceptance of that responsibility, and their silence around it, was one of the reasons they were a couple of Jazz' favorite people.

Jazz said, "Welcome, Seneschal. Won't ya help yourself t' a seat."

"Thank you." The ex-slave lowered himself with a squeaky hip. His records showed that Ratchet was still working on it; Seneschal had gone for vorn without needed maintenance. Ratchet had needed to even out the joint and was letting that heal before application of a new joint lining.

Jazz wondered how the mech had walked at all before the CMO got hold of him.

"Why d'you want to be a code analyst?"

"Well, sir, I was the closest the downstairs had to one. When someone glitched, it would be my job to set them right, as best I could—but I was no trained programming analyst. I would like to learn how to do it properly. Some of the others deserve better than I was able to do for them."

Seneschal's Altihexian accent was not as pronounced as Jazz' own, but it was still wonderful to hear it again, the spec-ops bot thought. "Ah'm sure ya did the best ya could under the circumstances."

"That I did. But very often I had to overwrite glitched modules with the coding my master ordered me to use, or bypass subroutines that he considered not worth repairing for a slave. Those who want to address that should be able to, and have it done right this time. They've already been my patients. They deserve a healer worthy of the title, not someone capable of nothing more than a servants'-quarters patch job."

"Most freedmecha shy away from th' job their masters forced them t' do."

"And as a younger mech, so might I have. But after a time I came to see that easing suffering was the right thing to do, regardless of Sunstone's orders. And if that glitch ordered a reprogramming, well, I learned how to put a mech's true memories inside a firewall where Sunstone couldn't find them."

Jazz had spent time undercover in the Towers. He could imagine the horrors this mech must have seen with his own optics, as well as in the memories of the mecha he had done his best to help. "You must hate Sunstone with a passion. At least in your place Ah would."

"Sunstone is a vile, cruel individual without a single redeeming virtue, or at least he has none that I have ever seen demonstrated. I certainly rejoiced when the captain left him behind on that mining colony, and if I ever see him again, it will be too soon. But as for wasting time on hating him? I don't know that he's worth the effort."

"That's the best way t' look at it," Jazz agreed. "There's somethin' else ya need t' keep in mind. People don't trust hackers, and most ordinary citizens don't know the difference between a hacker and a programming analyst. All they'll see is that you've got the skills to reprogram somebot if you take a notion to. Not everybot can handle that. Ah'm not sayin' they'll avoid you entirely, but they'll keep a distance. Do you have a close cohort, or a bond?"

"I have no romantic interests right now, but I am in cohort with two other bots. We are all former slaves of Sunstone's. They've never expressed reservations about my skills, and in fact encouraged me to apply for this training."

"Good! Programming analysts need a strong support system to deal with the stress. Ya probably already know, it's very hard, even grinding, work: not always th' work itself, so much as dealin' with it. That's much truer of a full analysis than a simple patch. Please excuse a rude question, and Ah in no way mean to be disrespectful of mah elders, but are you sure you're gonna be medically up to that kind of stress?"

"I don't consider that rude or disrespectful. I'll certainly ask Perceptor that question the next time I see him, but as far as I know there's no medical reason I can't do anything I want to do."

"Ah'm glad t'hear it," Jazz said. "Have you ever had anyone fight you when you tried t' help 'em?"

"Yes, sir, of course I have. Never out of ill will, you understand, but sometimes a bot wouldn't be sure I was who I said I was, or they'd panic even though they did recognize me."

"Then ya know any issues ya have can be used against ya. With your history, it would be a certifiable miracle straight from Primus Himself if you didn't have a whole subspace full of 'em, and you didn't have nobot to help ya, did ya?"

"No, I didn't. I was the only one who could do that work."

"Ya gonna have t' address all that before Ah can put ya out there t' get yourself hurt. Everyone else is too, but you been through more than all'a the rest of us put together. It ain't gonna be easy."

"I believe you. I did what I could to repair obvious coding errors, but there's only so much you can do with your own code."

Jazz understood. He had done some ruthless things to his own programming to stay alive after Smokescreen's disappearance. "Ah hear that. It will help ya in the long run."

"I know it. I have a goal, Jazz: to heal before my next reformat. When I get my new frame in a few vorn, I want to leave slavery behind with this one. Y'see, the frame was all Sunstone ever really owned."

Jazz considered. It didn't take him long to reach a decision: he said, "I swear I will do everything in my power to help you achieve that." He rose to see Seneschal out, then reached for his pad.

He finished his notes on Seneschal's interview, recording that solemn promise, just as Moonracer knocked.

Moonracer strongly reminded Jazz of a younger Flareup and Arcee. She was of the same mass-produced, lower-caste two-wheeler frame type, most of whom for whatever reason ended up with a femme spark, unless they were sparked into a Praxian cohort. Maybe because it was the femmes who tended to prefer lighter frames built for agility and speed rather than strength: cycleformers were almost the epitome of that.

Of course, every Praxian was a speed demon at spark, and even his solid, by-the-book Prowl could be occasionally lured away from his datapads by the promise of a good race.

The mods Moonracer had chosen when she became a healer set her apart from the Sisters; they had chosen light but definitely military-grade armor and a selection of weaponry suitable for skirmishers. Moonracer was modified for the strength she needed to be able to handle the unconscious frames of patients much larger than herself: heavier struts and cables, larger motors, two legs rather than a single one like Chromia and her sisters. Her medical mods added more mass. Her alt mode, as a result, was a Harley, a model similar to Prowl's but smaller, though still larger and more robust than the Ducatis the Sisters preferred.

She had chosen an emerald paint job, blue optics with a hint of turquoise that did not clash with the green.

She didn't have the Sisters' confidence, though. They walked into a room and owned it. They were mother and aunties to the Prime, who was the sole mech to whom they yielded precedence—and that only because they were proud Autobots who chose to.

Moonracer didn't have the vorn or experience to carry herself like that. She entered the room with a shy smile and asked, "Am I early?"

"Nope, you're right on time. C'mon in and have a seat."

"Thanks."

"You're, what, about a tenth of a vorn away from completin' yer apprenticeship?"

"Yes, as a general medic. Perceptor's specialties are microrepairs and nanocyte programming, but I don't have the frame type for the really tiny stuff, and he doesn't have the facilities or the extra nanocytes to teach that yet—not more than basic emergency care, anyway."

Jazz nodded understanding. They all had personal colonies of healing nanocytes, and any medic could reprogram some of those to target a mech's self-healing where it was most needed. Other colonies with very specialized functions were kept in the medbay for use when needed, but especially with limited energon to nourish them they had to be carefully managed and there weren't often enough to allow medical students to study them. The situation was much better now that Excellion was there, and could grow colonies within the portions of his frame dedicated to the ship's medbay, but they had a lot more bots now too. "So you're lookin' for a specialty."

"Yes."

"Why programming analysis?"

"Because a lot of us who came here with Excellion need it," she said. "Were you at Tyger Pax, in the battle?"

Jazz nodded.

"Nearly all of us lost someone. We all lost our homes. A lot of bots are the sole survivor within their entire cohort, sometimes both their sparkling and adult cohorts, and sometimes they lost both at once.

"And the things we saw were horrible. At least the soldiers knew how to fight back, but we didn't. Oh, if we got the chance we'd pile on a 'Con, but mostly all we could do was run. Most bots couldn't run fast enough and we felt them die. If you walk through Excellion's corridors during off-shift and you hear someone crying—even now—you just don't ask. Butting in can make it worse. Bots come into medbay with issues—privacy comes in here, but—" she paused, thinking carefully about how to say it—"what troubles them are things that could be avoided if they kept up with basic maintenance better. I've observed that it's depression and grief that keep most of them from coming in; they don't see the point of continuing. I'm their healer, and I'm supposed to help them. You're the only one who can teach me how to do that."

"Look," Jazz said, "based on what you just told me, I want to let you in. But what if you change your mind?"

"Well," she said to him with a smile, "in that case, I'll have enough information to know when to send someone to you. I'm going to be a healer anyway, Jazz, maybe of processors but definitely of frames."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sapphire was his last interview. Like Moonracer, she came into the office shyly, and sat only when asked to.

She kept her optics demurely downcast. The younger creation of a noble house, her duty would have been to make a political match, and given her house's status, the cohort into which she would have been sent would have been composed of high-ranking mecha.

She would have been raised to consider herself better those of lesser caste—but she was the lowest of her own, and doomed always to be the least among her adult cohort. Perhaps the next young bot adopted into it would be of lesser status than herself, but due to her place within the caste, that was not very likely.

The lives of second and later creations like Sapphire were...Jazz didn't know what glyph to use. Nothing accrued to those bots through their own effort; they were useful only as bargaining chips in the Great Game of politics. Their status and quite often their self-worth derived from the house into which they had been sparked, and later, the one into which they were bartered. Their only function was to convey high status.

It did not help matters that her parents had been a pair of abusive afts, but the war and its aftermath had changed all that. She and Obsidian were inseparable rather than the bitter rivals most noble siblings became.

She seated herself with the grace that only deportment training or a lot of dance instruction gave a bot; in Sapphire's case, Jazz could be sure it wasn't the latter.

Once her parents were out of her life, Sapphire had wandered a bit. She took some instruction from Milestrina, whose notes indicated that the young bot often broke down in tears when asked to sing or recount a tragic lyric.

But in Perceptor's department, Sapphire had first made herself useful, then begun actively to pursue medical training. According to Percy, Sapphire was gentle and diligent, and in the time that she had worked with him, she had learned compassion for bots of all castes, especially the young.

Jazz thought she would identify with younglings her own age, but when those optics finally met his, he saw an old spark looking back at him.

Her interview was not unlike Moonracer's. There was an undercurrent there that Jazz could not trace...nor identify. He still thought she was a good candidate, despite her youth.

Still, once he had released her to get her upgrades installed and study the preliminary material, the notes he made about Sapphire reflected his unease.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Arturo Melendez thought he he had a good idea. He'd chewed it over for a couple of days now, and still thought it good.

Though possibly fatal. But that...was a risk that could be managed.

Maybe.

When the last of the bots left Jazz' office, he knocked on the door.

"Who is it?"

"Arturo, sir. Do you have a few minutes?"

"Always for you, Arturo. What's up?"

Arturo seated himself at the desk on top of Jazz' desk. "This is new," he said, admiring it.

"You're not gonna carve your initials in the top, are ya?"

Arturo grinned at his handler. "No, I think I can resist that temptation. I had an idea, and I thought I'd get your input on it. It might work, but it might be lousy, or it might kill me."

"It's got a one-in-three chance of bein' any good?"

"Well, since you put it that way..."

"Arturo, let's hear it. I might be able to make sure it doesn't kill ya, and that gives it a two-in-three chance."

"It's about the symbionts. Those two _hombres_ who run with Soundwave's gang should be contacting me soon for another meeting. I could tell them I have information that I'll only give the boss. And the presence of the symbionts among us is important enough for that to be true. I'll claim I want to make sure I get paid, that they don't take the credit for finding it out themselves and cut me out, which is exactly what they probably would do. The beauty of it is, I won't have to lie, which we both know is not my strong point. If it works, they'll take me straight to Soundwave."

"How are ya going to prove ya know where they are?"

"You find a way to put me where I could see them, so I don't have to lie about how I got there. I'll snap a cell phone picture."

"OK. Ah'll work that out so it comes down as just part of your daily orders. Ya won't know exactly when you're going to cross paths with them 'til it happens. This could work, but you're right about how dangerous it is. Ten to one, once Soundwave gets the information, he'll figure it's too dangerous to let you go even if he doesn't have reason to suspect you're a spy."

_"Si, _I thought that might be a risk. The only exit strategy I have is 'Wing it,' because I have no idea what I'm walking into."

"That's the only exit strategy there is, more often than Ah like. But if you don't get outta there to report back, there ain't no sense doin' it in the first place."

"This is true," said the father of four young children he loved deeply.

End Part 21


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimers in Part 1

Jazz eventually had an idea for modification of the original idea. Arturo, though he looked at his handler sideways when informed of it, agreed, and Jazz presented the new idea at the senior staff meeting the next day.

When Will Lennox spluttered himself to a halt, having had several consecutive litters of kittens, Optimus Prime took his turn.

And then Prowl was up to bat. "Jazz has discussed this plan with me," he said with quiet dignity, "and I give it a 72.7% percent chance of success. Particularly if he is able to choose his jump target. With some modifications to the original plan, Arturo has a 97% chance of safe return. Jazz, of course, has a 100% chance. There's basically no way he can be stopped."

"Well, there's one," Jazz said, "but Ah cain't see Soundwave usin' it."

"And it is?" said Will Lennox.

"Total electronic isolation. No power, no internet, for a quarter-mile in any direction. Ah couldn't get out of that, but they'd haveta kill one of their own to take advantage of it." He smiled briefly. "'Course, there ain't too much damage they could do while they was busy holdin' me there, so that'd work out good for all of us."

Optimus asked, "Prowl, how likely is that to occur?"

Prowl said, "Soundwave would have to know that Jazz was there, and understand how his projection ability works well enough to think of that countermeasure. If Soundwave has mastered this technique himself, there is of course a very high probability that he will know how to contain Jazz. If, however, he has not attempted to project beyond whatever he has been inhabiting often enough to learn the technique's limitations, then he could determine those limitations only by studying Jazz. We know that Soundwave is not a risk-taker by nature. He is patient. His preference is to take the course of action most likely to be successful in the long run. He is unlikely to have used the trial-and-error method by which Jazz learned his limits. Therefore I estimate only an 8% chance that he already is aware of the potential for trapping Jazz in a dead zone."

Jazz said, "Boss-bot, Will, these are the best odds we've had goin' into a mission in _vorn_. Ah don't see how we can bypass the chance to put Soundwave's crew out of action before they kill a bunch more people like they did in Beaverton. Soundwave don't give a frag how much collateral damage he causes."

Prime and Lennox shared a long look, and finally Prime nodded. Lennox said, "All right. I want to see a mission plan ASAP, and kick all the holes in it we can before I send it to Mearing. I guarantee she'll find twelve more we haven't anticipated."

Jazz agreed with that. The upside was, once they finished patching all the holes they could find as well as the ones Mearing pointed out, they would have a very good plan by the time she gave them the go. If she did.

He'd do everything he could to make it hard for her to say "No," though.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen encountered Bumblebee but rarely in her daily travels; she did not often encounter Sam, for that matter, either. But this morning the yellow scout was at Buzzard Rock before her, sitting with his back to the rock itself and watching...whatever he was watching. His aura was very roiled.

And beneath her concern for him, Diarwen was a little irritated. She had gotten up an hour early for some meditation time, and now it appeared that Lady Brigit had work for her. She let go of the irritation, and called, "Bumblebee? Are you all right?"

The young mech made to rise, but she waved him back down. He said, "Thank you...Prime...Consort...I am fine," and settled back.

She seated herself cross-legged in front of him. With the sun about an hour from rising, the air was cold, and still; she raised the hood of her coat. "Your aura is very roiled."

"Aura?" her own voice said back to her.

"Your fields. Our people use varying terms for the same thing, Bumblebee; all of us, perhaps every living thing, has an aura, or fields. Yours seem as if someone went through them with a mixer this morning. If it would help you to talk about it, I offer a listening ear."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Would it...be...all right if I...sent comms...to...your...data...pad?"

She knew from Optimus' experience of Bee that when the young bot _really_ wanted to talk to Sam, he did so this way. "Certainly."

He waited, then sent, "I have found that I have Protector coding, Prime Consort, and the only Protector I know of is Megatron. I do not wish to be like him."

"Well, no," Diarwen said. "One would not. But is it not also true, Bee, that Megatron very likely had substantial programming glitches? As I understand his history, by the time anyone might have realized that, he could no longer be compelled to submit to a code analysis."

"That's true," Bee sent, after pause for thought.

"Does this also leave you feeling as if you have no role model? No one to base your behavior on?"

"Yes. I don't know how to be a Protector, and there is no one to teach me."

"I don't know that that is true. Ironhide is almost everyone's Protector."

"There was a formal code of honor involved, Lady Diarwen, and Ironhide's seems to be...practicality. I do not mean to criticize Optimus' foster father, but I don't think he is the mech I need to model my behavior on."

The Sidhe knight thought for a moment. "Might Drift be of help to you?"

"I had not thought of asking him, but I shall."

"In about five breem, Bee, my Circle will be here for our daily lesson. But until then, may I tell you a story of those among my people who might have been characterized as Protectors?"

"Prime Consort, I would enjoy hearing that."

"Very well, I shall be pleased to tell it to you. In times long past, before the Catholic priests came to Eire, my people traveled there at will. In that long-ago time, Keva ni Brennan, the best witch Ashbourne Kells had known for many generations, had a merrybegot daughter Aislinn who bid fair to surpass her mother in cunning, and outstripped all the young women in Ashbourne Kells for beauty. Tall as her mother at thirteen years, dark of hair and blue of eye, fair of skin, and red of lip and cheek was she."

Bee had been on the net to find that "ni" meant "daughter of." "Merrybegot" took a little more searching, apparently it referred to a child conceived during the Beltane festival but he had no idea why that was significant. Human mating customs were confusing at best. He queued it to the list of things to research later.

"The queen of Ashbourne Hundred, Ciara ni Dothan, was known to be covetous of Ashbourne Kells, and she summoned the young woman to her court. Her mother was very worried by this, for those who bested the queen at spells or beauty had a habit of sudden disappearance, though such could never be brought back to the queen. Ciara, true to her name, was as dark as Aislinn the merrybegot, and Keva knew that thereby Ciara would see Aislinn as rival. After much thought, she put upon the girl a geas, to fall in love with none but the unmarried man who could protect her from the queen, and a second, that none but an unmarried man who had the strength to do so would fall in love with Aislinn.

"Her child protected, Keva ni Brennan dressed the daughter of her heart in the best her house had to offer, hung her about with charms, and sped her on the way, with her own red-eared white dog running beside the horse, and the girl's own servants bearing behind her mortar and pestle, distillery equipment, the herbs Aislinn had gathered, and the cloth she had woven.

"Sent to meet Aislinn the merrybegot was the queen's champion, Fionn Flann, a Sidhe on whom Ciara ni Dothan, cunning and deep and dark was she, had set her sights, though not for love. But the moment Aislinn the merrybegot and Fionn Flann set eyes upon one another, the mother's geas took them both. Or perhaps they would have fallen in love without it; no one now knows.

"The journey to court was not long, two days at most. During the night the champion set up his tent, green and gold, and forbade the men of his retinue to lie with the girls sent with Aislinn should they decline the men's advances; there was some grumbling at this but they obeyed. For Fionn Flann was the best swordsman in all of Ashbourne Hundred, and far beyond it; as far as Tara was his name known. No man among them would face him at sword's point willingly.

"Riding into the court the next day, the pair was the fairest many had ever seen: red and gold the hair reaching his elbows, black as night the hair falling to her knees. Tall and strong was he, ducking to get into every doorway save that of the High Hall itself, and the sword, the harp, and the dance all his friend. Aislinn, alas to all that coveted her, was just as fair to look upon as Fionn Flann, but dark and pale where he was red and gold. Her eyes blue where his were green, her head coming only to his shoulder: but taller she than many another man thereby.

"I don't know what all that means," Bee sent.

Diarwen had to think about it hard. "Their frames were designed to appeal to the eye, and they had very nice paint jobs," she said finally. "Among both the Sidhe and the Irish, physical attractiveness was regarded as a two-edged sword. 'Tis favor unearned, you see, and the recipient must live a good life, to deserve it. An they do not, misfortune befalls them."

"I see." He'd been on the internet again: "an" used so meant "if."

"Shall I go on then? Very well. Aislinn made her curtsy to Ciara ni Dothan, whose eyes narrowed with jealousy at the sight of the lovely young girl. For the queen was of an age to lose her beauty, and it was said quietly, behind closed doors and raised hands, that this was happening. So she did not look kindly upon Aislinn the merrybegot, though this she hid with fair smiles and soft words. She sent the girl out into the distillery, there to work her magic for the queen, and turned to Fionn Flann.

"But Fionn Flann's red head had followed Aislinn's path to the still room, and Fionn Flann's green eyes were for none other, where Fionn Flann had once followed the queen with those eyes. So Ciara ni Dothan was enraged behind her pretty smiles, because there was that from Fionn Flann which she wished: she had seen him burned by iron, and thereby knew him to be Sidhe. She thought, wrongly, that Sidhe were immortal. She cared naught for the man, but wished for immortality."

"But," sent Bee, "surely that's not something anyone can grant!"

"No, it is not. But we Sidhe, you know, we live about so long as you do. That is long indeed to a human, Bee."

"I see. Go on," said the young scout, who could see trouble gathering around the red-and-gold head of Fionn Flann.

"Long that day Ciara kept Fionn Flann with her, laughing and jesting, singling him out with her favor. But though Fionn Flann returned every courtesy due Ciara, his eyes of green strayed too often for the queen's pleasure to the distillery, and his hands wrung from the harp only laments. When at last the queen dismissed him from her company, it was with a thoughtful look upon her face that she retired to her quarters: and her women, seeing her so, were swift to do her bidding, and grateful to be dismissed. Late that night, when most were abed, she summoned to her a footman, and went to her king, hight Garvan."

Bee had the thought that he might as well keep an active connection to the internet: "hight" meant "named."

"The footman heard them argue that night: she wished for him to do aught, and he would not. She willed it, and he nilled it. Thus, just before the sun broke, the air around the royal couple's chamber went still and quiet, and the footman heard no more save the queen's beautiful voice, saying cold words, cold, and the chill of magic flowed out from those rooms. The footman became afraid, and ran to the kitchen.

"The king, when he left his chambers that morning, was unwontedly thoughtful and quiet. Toward noon, he summoned to himself one Fionn Flann, and they walked together around the queen's herb garden, at one end of which Aislinn chose the finest of the rosebuds for a love philtre the queen had requested.

"The king and the queen's champion argued long, yet softly. None heard them until, with a loud cry, Fionn Flann sank to his knees, and raising his clasped hands to the king, entreated him: but the king was firm. The champion knelt before him with his head hanging, and said, 'Nay, my lord, this I cannot.' But the king was firm. Thrice cried Fionn Flann that he could not; thrice said the king that he must.

"Then the queen approached, with smiles and fair words, and the two men stopped arguing. But she too added her entreaty to the king's, and Fionn Flann at last cried that he would be no party to such. He rushed to Aislinn, plucked her up, and threw her across the saddlebow of the nearest horse. He whistled then, and his own horse and dog, and Aislinn's horse and red-eared white hound, came to him; he shouted to his companions to see Aislinn's retinue safe home, and vanished from the ken of the court as thoroughly as though he had never been.

"The horse he rode returned the next day; while it had been a young horse he took, it was an old one he sent back, and there was a murmur in the court of witchcraft. The queen scoffed it down, saying, "No witchcraft, but only a Sidhe, for such Fionn Flann was." She was believed, and life at court returned to normal.

"Fionn Flann returned the girl untouched to her mother that very day by travelling through the Seelie lands to get there. He was a Knight of the Seelie Court, and such do not exercise captor's rights, the ability to force sex upon their captives."

Bee's irises spiralled open. "But that's rape!" he sent.

"Yes," Diarwen said. "Sad it is that such is often committed in war."

Bee had nothing to say to that, for it had been as true on Cybertron as it still was on Earth. Optimus had expressly forbidden it to his troops, which was almost unnecessary, since none of them were inclined toward it in the first place.

The same had not been true of Megatron or his forces.

"The queen took her revenge, though, and Fionn Flann was cried outlaw in the lands of Ashbourne. When word reached Ciara that Fionn Flann and Aislinn the merrybegot lived again at Ashbourne Kells, as it was their town's neighboring kingdom, she hatched a plan that would bring those fair lands under her hand: she told the king of Fionn Flann's presence there, and the king prepared the court for war.

"Now Keva ni Brennan was witch indeed, and knew all of this a-brewing. Therefore she set wards, many in number and mighty in power, about her daughter and this Sidhe knight the girl loved. The fair plain of Ashbourne Kells seemed to blossom under their feet where'er they trod, and Keva ni Brennan thought to keep her daughter safe and her lands intact.

"But Ciara ni Dothan compelled her king to cite Fionn Flann's disobedience to his wishes as an error which must be punished, and he planned to take from Keva ni Brennan and Aislinn the merrybegot their lands and houses and all that swore fealty to them. Fionn Flann he would give to the queen as a slave.

"'What is left of that one's life will thereby be very unhappy and quite short,' or so he thought, 'and the the queen will be my own once again.'

"On a fair day, the parties faced one another across a meadow. But there in the fine lands of Ashbourne Kells the queen's plans came all to naught, for Fionn Flann stood as champion to Keva ni Brennan. He challenged the king, who fell to his sword.

"Fionn Flann took the queen and Aislinn with him to the Seelie court, while Keva ni Brennan went to Ashbourne Town to set up her own. While they traveled, the queen was made to ride with Aislinn's women, while the two young lovers held hands at the front of the troop. During that ride, 'twas a simple matter for Fionn Flann to warn Aislinn to neither drink nor eat while they were in the Seelie lands, and to forbid her women the same.

"Once they arrived, Fionn Flann's mother made much of him, and Aislinn learned that he was the son of a king in those lands, sent to live in Eire so that he would learn the dealings of men from the royal courts there. True to the word she had given Fionn, Aislinn neither ate nor drank though that long afternoon, nor did her maids.

"Fionn arranged that the queen would be the guest of his mother for a fortnight among the Sidhe. He returned with Aislinn to Ashbourne Kells, and they were handfast that very day.

"In contentment and happiness, they lived through many turnings of the Wheel of the Year. Aislinn became the queen of Ashbourne Town in her own time, and she and Fionn Flann had many children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Through their line, and many other similar handfastings, to this very day many of the Irish have a bit of Sidhe blood.

"But Fionn Flann's greatest revenge was yet to come. He outlived Aislinn, she being human, and after her death he returned to the lands of the Sidhe.

"The queen, true to her nature, had by then grown impatient to be returned to her own lands. When Fionn Flann again appeared, he acquiesced to her importunities, and they left the court of his parents the following day.

"Ciara ni Dothan commented that much had changed since she had left her court, and Fionn Flann said only that this was so. When they reached the court of Ashbourne Town, where Fionn Flann's and Aislinn's daughter and her husband now reigned, the queen was rude to them, saying, 'Who are you to be in my place?'

"Fionn Flann's daughter said to her, "And who are you, to be rude to the queen of Ashbourne Town?'

"Ciara was very angry at that, and she said, 'I am Ciara, the rightful queen of Ashbourne Town.'

"The entire court drew away from her, eyes narrowed, mouths turned down. And Glennah ni Flann said, 'That name is cursed among us, as a vengeful stupid queen of which the country is well rid. An you are truly she, you will not be welcomed among us. Father, is it true that she is such?'

"And Fionn Flann said to her, 'My queen, it is true that she is such.'

Glennah ni Flann said, 'Then let her go to the laundry, the hardest work to be done in my castle. She shall ruin her fine hands, that wreaked so much evil among us, and make soap as well, hot heavy hard work, and that in the summer so well as the winter.'

"So the evil queen was taken wailing away, and did the hard work that no one else wanted to for the rest of her life. She had no power any longer, since she had so misused what she had. She had truly earned her fate.

"Fionn Flann returned to the court of his mother and was not seen again in Eire save for those times when the veils between the worlds thins. He saw his half-human children and grandchildren twice yearly, at Samhain and Beltain, and lived a happy life in Sidhe lands."

There was some silence after she finished. Then Bee, who could see the heat signatures of Diarwen's students approaching, said, "So that is what a Protector does? He keeps safe those who work for their people, and takes revenge against those who use their power for selfish means?"

"Yes. It is something I have seen you do time and again, Bee, and not only for Sam." She smiled. "You are a great deal like Fionn Flann, save that there is no red in your paint job."

The young scout smiled, and rose. "Racing stripes," he sent. "I shall go now, Prime Consort, and I thank you."

Diarwen watched him fade into the darkness, and could almost feel Brigit's chuckle at her expense: _You'll get your meditation time, daughter. But not when you expect it._

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"I have asked to speak with you, Milestrina, because one among my company has been shown to be a Protector."

The elderly bot set down her cube of energon. "Oh, my," she said. "That's very good news, Optimus. You have long been without a Protector."

Optimus Prime smiled, and did not correct the misapprehension on her part; instead, he gathered himself. He was not here to speak of past sorrows. "I need to speak with you in confidence about Bumblebee," he said.

"That youngling? What of him? He seems well enough to me."

"Oh, he is. But it is he who has Protector coding, and his only memories of the Lord Protector concern Megatron. As you know, my brother was to his cohort what the Fallen was to mine. Bumblebee will need your help to understand that he is the first of a new band of Protectors, mecha who will restore honor to the title."

"I see," Milestrina said thoughtfully. "Well then, send him to me at this joor tomorrow, if you will. I shall need to assemble a presentation."

"You would do that for a single mech?"

"Of course. How else are we to learn our own history but one mech at a time?"

Optimus smiled, and turned the conversation to other matters.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus sent the pulse that closed his office door after one look at Sam's fields. He nodded to Bumblebee, and said, "Brother? What troubles you?" to Sam, lifting the young man up to the desk set on top of his own.

Sam sat, and crossed his arms over his chest. "When I got back to the house after you and Bee and I talked, Carly was asleep, and that next morning I had such an early flight back I didn't wake her when I left. Last night, it was late again when I got in. This morning, when I got up, I had a secret I couldn't tell her. I mean, the NEST stuff was one thing, but Optimus, my being a Prime...I don't have and don't want to have any secrets from Carly."

"No," Optimus said, "it is not wise to keep a secret from one's Prime Consort."

A look of pure horror flashed across Sam's face. "You mean, I have to tell Carly she's got a title too?"

"If you wish to avoid having a secret, yes. But you can also tell her that the title has carried no functions with it since we left Cybertron. Diarwen tells me she finds that a saving grace."

It was Sam's day for having his brain scrambled. "You mean that you and Diarwen...?"

"Skimmer once referred to our relationship as 'doin' it,' if that helps you."

Sam put both palms against his temple and pushed hard. If only he could put enough pressure on his skull, perhaps he could force the troublesome visual that brought him to pop right out of his skull.

When he was sure he'd failed, he dropped his hands, and said, "Uh. Well. Congratulations. I hope you guys are as happy as we are."

"Direct comparisons of happiness are somewhat difficult, but we _are_ happy, and I have observed that you and Carly seem to be happy also."

"Very much so." Sam sighed. "Okay, let me get the tiny little pieces of my mind back into some sort of order here. I want Carly to know, but you know what? _No_body else. You, me, Bee, Carly, Diarwen. That's it."

"Ratchet also knows, but I shall instruct him to regard it as a matter of patient confidentiality, if he does not do so already."

"I can live with Ratchet knowing it."

"I would like...Ratchet...to know...my situation...as well," Bee said.

Optimus nodded. "Yes, that is wise. He should probably check that your protocols are integrating properly. But Sam, no, no one else needs to know."

"Not my parents, _no_body."

"That is wisest. We do not wish to make you an assassination target, and that knowledge would surely do so."

Alarm leapt across Sam's face, followed quickly by resignation. Inevitably, someone would make a run at him if the secret got out, but his secret was in safe hands: servos, actually, that would keep him and his family alive among them.

"I need...to leave...Sam." Bee sent, ::I am meeting Milestrina,:: to Optimus.

"Go ahead," Optimus said to Bumblebee. "Sam and I have a few more things to discuss; when we are done I will take him home."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Milestrina received Bee with great courtesy, a tiny portion of energon, and a plate of rust sticks.

::Elder Conservator, I thank you, but I cannot drink your energon!::

Milestrina laughed. "Nor may I offer you any, Bee, without incurring the Wrath of Ratchet. No, this is from your own ration, taken with Ratchet's permission. It's traditional to offer a spectator something to eat and drink; presentations of this kind take a while. Please, be seated, and I will begin."

He took a seat. Bee listened, fascinated, recording with her permission.

Milestrina began with the Tale of Telexion. Sparked into a lower-caste cohort, he yearned to be a priest, but the calling was denied those without the means to purchase a place in the priests' school. As it was Telexion's dream, though, he calmly assessed which profession would pay most, and found that for a youth of his frame size, training as an Enforcer was feasible. He became a layperson in the temple, and ascended the ranks of Enforcer trainees rather quickly.

Then one day a young mech was brought into the Hall of Justice when Telexion was assigned to that shift. Even in stasis cuffs the young one drew all eyes; he was a handsome fellow, tall and strong, treated with some deference by the Enforcers.

Across a crowded room, his optics met Telexion's, and Telexion was inundated by the knowledge that he must protect this mech, even at the cost of his own life.

The elderly bot paused then, because Bee's fields had become disturbed. But all he sent was, ::Please go on, Elder Conservator.::

"Are you certain, Bee? This is not meant to disturb you."

::It is not disturbing, Elder Conservator. Rather, confirming.::

She smiled, and resumed.

The young mech was named Fortean, and he was a senator's aide—he had been arrested with the senator, both of them protesting a newly-enacted raise in the price of energon—and a Prime candidate. When the two young mechs met one another outside the Hall of Justice after Telexion's shift, they pursued their initial attraction.

Telexion knew not what to make of his involvement with Fortean. For he was not drawn to the mech's berth, though that was a possibility both of them kept in mind; indeed, for a time, each was attracted to and berthed others.

Fortean was sent, in the fullness of his priestly studies, to spend the night in meditation over Primus' discarded frame. Some mecha did not return from that whole, or sane. Telexion and Fortean spent the dark-cycle before Fortean's vigil in Telexion's berth, and that next light-cycle as they parted, each could see that his fields disentangled from the other's reluctantly.

Fortean survived his vigil, and when his proctor came to him afterward, said that his Prime name would be Fortranus, and that his Protector was Telexion, who was to be trained as Fortranus' own acolyte.

The Prime Council was not displeased, though no other Prime had been Elevated with his Protector already in place. But the priests cried out, "He is not one of us! He is of the lower castes!"

"He is one of you now," said Fortranus, "for Primus has decreed it." And the other Primes agreed.

The priests were silenced, and trained Telexion, who took as his Protector name Talaxion.

::But,:: Bee sent, ::that's...::

"The hero of the Story of Talaxion, yes. He is the only Protector to have two stories about him."

::I've heard that story.::

"Most of us have. I shall recount it if you wish, but it was another I had in mind to tell you next."

The Conservator had, after the dance and song between the tales was sung and the second story told, taught young Bumblebee what it meant to be a Protector. That task was much more like being Fionn Flann or Talaxion than being Megatron, he thought, taking his leave of her. Honor and the care of others, over and above his own well-being: that he could do for Sam.

He thanked her, and left her quarters wishing that he could do something for her in return. He did not realize that with that idea in his processor, he had already learned to listen to his Protector coding.

End Part 22


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimers in Part 1

Optimus took Sam home by way of Medbay, since both Parker and Ratchet wanted to see him. The human Prime went to Ratchet's office first, so that the Cybertronian medic could send his scans to Parker and save him a few needle sticks and X-rays. With Sam's permission, Optimus stayed with him.

Ratchet emitted a pleased hum as he read the scan. "It appears that the remaining All-Spark energy you bear has stabilized. The readings are essentially the same as the last time I scanned you."

"So, nothing since my shins and my ribs stopped hurting?"

Ratchet's gimlet optics focused on him. "The time frame correlates, yes. Let me do a finer-resolution scan of your legs."

"Why, is something wrong?"

"I don't think there's anything wrong. Optimus' self-healing nanites have always been much more efficient than anyone else's. Once we tried culturing them and transplanting them into a seriously injured bot. The transplant took, but his healing rate was not accelerated. I had to draw the conclusion that it wasn't the nanites themselves, but the effect of Optimus' fields. A Prime's spark is different, stronger, than an ordinary bot's. I think the same thing may be true of you, given organic parameters. Your 'Prime reformat' has happened much more slowly, a little over two of your years rather than within an orn as happens with Cybertronians.

"But it has happened. Your bone density is much greater—that's the source of that extra twenty pounds you've been concerned about. Also, look here." Ratchet activated one of the exam cubicle's many screens, and put up an image of what looked to Sam like a beef roast. He explained, "That's a typical scan of a human leg muscle." He split the screen. "There's yours."

"Ah—hey, wait, what are those little brown things? I got little brown things growing in my muscles? What is this?"

"An organic fiber mesh that has permeated your muscles, making them approximately twenty percent stronger than the equivalent mass of unmodified muscle fibers. You're also much more resistant to injury. Where before you might have badly sprained your ankle if you fell, now the same accident would only result in a twisted ankle and superficial bruising. It's as if the All-Spark energy somehow extrapolated a few hundred thousand years of ongoing evolution and reformatted you to meet that standard. Humans can't reformat instantly, though. In organics, there's an ongoing process in which old, damaged cells die and are replaced by new ones. Your reformat had to wait for nature to take its course."

"So, that process is complete now, and that's why the All-Spark energy has settled down? What about my ribs? I busted myself up pretty good in Egypt, and they haven't hurt at all for months. The Navy doctor on the aircraft carrier said I'd probably have an ache for the rest of my life."

"Yes, getting _offlined _will normally do that for you," Ratchet said, the snark in his tone taking the shine off the nearby stainless-steel exam tables. "Raise your arm, please, so that I can get a clear scan of the affected bone structure."

Sam obliged, and Ratchet put the result up on screen.

"Well, that's interesting," the medic said.

_No_body, human, Pretender, Cybertronian, or Sidhe, likes it when a medic says their results are "interesting." Sam bristled, and said, "What do you mean?"

"Look at the pattern that your broken ribs healed in."

Sam looked. "They look like somebody took a hammer to a sackful of marbles."

Optimus said, "Well, you would not recognize it, of course. Sam, every Prime bears the glyph which serves as the Prime Sigil somewhere on his frame. That glyph is reproduced among your rib fragments."

"You're shittin' me."

"That's a physical impossibility," Ratchet said.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Research that expression," he said. "It means 'I don't believe it,' but I guess I have to."

Optimus sighed. "To bare one's spark to another, among us, is like nakedness between your people, Sam. Nonetheless, may I show you my spark chamber? It is where my Prime glyph is."

"Um. Okay."

Ratchet turned his back, perhaps in response to something Optimus sent him, maybe out of simple decency. The Prime opened his chestplates, and Sam saw his gleaming spark chamber.

"Can you see it?" Optimus said, and closed his chestplates.

Something more than merely light had gone out of the room. But Sam, now that he'd seen Optimus', could see the glyph repeated in his own healed rib fractures. "Yes, I see it. All right, if I didn't believe it before, I have to now. I'm a Prime."

Optimus cocked his head at the younger Prime, and smiled. "You believed it before. But not, perhaps, down to your bones."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"I wish the Army'd just buy a bunch of sheep and let 'em loose in here," Jack Darby grumbled, swinging his billhook. A tumbleweed that had never done anything to him at all fell to it.

"You don't want sheep," Shad White said. "You want goats."

"Why's that?"

Neither boy had stopped in his work. They were behind the human quarters at Mission City, nudging back the desert by clearing brush.

"Sheep are really stupid. Goats are smart. If we had sheep, we'd be out here rescuing the silly things every other day. If we had goats, they'd pretty much run themselves, except for their yearly vet visit, and maybe getting the farrier out here twice a year to trim their hooves."

"I forgot," Jack said, hacking at a particularly tough bush, "that you used to take care of them."

Shad snorted. "Sheep are one thing I don't miss at all about livin' in the compound," he said. "There's others, too. Havin' to hide who I was. Not speakin' out about that crazy old man, because I knew it wouldn't do any good. He even had my dad fooled, and my dad was hard to fool."

Jack stayed silent until Shad's breathing evened out again.

"And you said you never left the compound, except to buy shoes," he said, still cutting. "That must have been hard. You were homeschooled, then?"

"No, off the internet. I still take those classes, mostly because I don't want to lose touch with the girl who gave me Shankie." Shad wiped his forehead and looked up, then uttered a two-note whistle. Shankie came loping back from wherever he'd been, wagging himself happily, tongue extended. "Be good if we had some goats," Shad said, caressing the dog. "Shankie could herd 'em for us. I don't want him losin' his skills. The girl I mentioned? I asked her what Shankie's commands were, and she sent 'em to me. There's some whistles, she sent me that audio file, and a video of the hand commands. Shankie watched and whined the whole time I was watching. He obeyed the commands, too."

"Wow," Jack said. "He must be pretty smart."

"Yeah." Shad straightened and said, "Cast" in an entirely different tone of voice to Shankie, who cocked his head and departed at a gallop. Shad grinned, and went back to work. "That'll keep him busy for a while. He won't find any sheep, so he'll come back to me."

A few minutes later, Shad said very quietly, "The hardest part is that most of the people I used to know and almost all of the ones I love shun me now, because I'm gay."

Jack felt himself boil over, and took it out on the tough sagebrush. "That's just stupid," he said finally. "Fuckin' idiots."

Shad's color came up, and Jack remembered too late that he didn't care for that kind of language. "Sorry, man," he said.

Shad shrugged. "I have to get used to it," he said, his tone flat with pain. "My old world is gone, and I live in a new one now."

Jack's watch beeped; he was glad, because he genuinely didn't know how to respond to that. "We're done," he said. "It's four o'clock. Let's go watch the Pretenders working for a while."

"Why?"

Jack smiled. "You'll see," he said.

When they got there they saw average-looking men doing average-looking stuff. But the boys refilled their canteens from a hose for an excuse to linger, and were rewarded.

Icebreaker, who'd been on gate duty that day, had been seconded to escort a truck loaded with building supplies to the site. Once there, the truck pulled to a stop, and Icy transformed.

"Mr. Glasco?" he shouted. "Need a signature."

"Yo!" said a tall man on the second floor, looking at blueprints with another fellow. He worked his way between a couple of wall studs and jumped down to ground level, transforming on the way and balancing his landing with his tail.

Shad gulped and did a double-take. It was one thing to watch a giant robot change into a car, and then change back, but it was something else again when some guy suddenly transformed into a metallic being with that spiky tail.

He suppressed the urge to hide behind Jack.

Who said, "Man, I never get over it either."

They left the construction site with their water, after Shad held the hose for Shankie to drink from.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen ni Gilthanel said to her circle, "The spring equinox, Ostara, will arrive shortly. What a relief that must have been to the earliest ancestors, who had not yet developed the knowledge that spring _must_ come back, that it is inevitable that it do so. For aught they knew, until the goddess Ostara rescued them from winter, the cold would never end. For them, the vernal equinox was a kind of resurrection."

She felt Chip Chase focus on her without looking at him.

"But," Jazz said, "they woulda starved if it didn't happen. Spring, I mean."

He was, all the bots were, emitting warmth for their human friends. Five-bloody-thirty of the AM in March was still cold in Nevada. Above freezing, that Diarwen could tell, but not by much. Some of the teenagers were shivering. At least this time, Raf had long pants on.

"Indeed they would have, and sometimes did, if spring was very late in following a long, hard winter. Also, there is a racial memory of the ice age among those peoples affected by it—the Norse concept of the Fimbul Winter, for example. But do remember that three days after Yule, they saw the sun begin to increase his light, so they were not without hope. And at Imbolc, when only the grass is greening, the ewes gave birth to their lambs. That too was a hopeful sign.

"At Ostara, the days and nights are of equal length, as they are at Mabon, six months away on the Wheel of the Year. After Ostara, it was known for certain that summer would return." She smiled at her students, human and Cybertronian alike. "The Christian feast of Easter was very likely named for this goddess, though its timing is lunar rather than sun-based. Easter takes place on the Sunday nearest the first new moon after the equinox."

Parker asked. "Are Easter eggs a custom European Christians borrowed from the pagans?"

"I am not sure if it was so much borrowed as brought in whole! The symbolism is identical: new life. Though I have heard it said the custom of the egg hunt had a story to it worthy of the Brothers Grimm."

After a moment of silence, young Raf said, "Come on. You have to tell us that story. Please?"

Diarwen laughed. "Very well. In pre-Christian time, colored eggs were given as gifts, and still are, in Eastern Europe. Hiding them did not come into favor until the troubles between the Pagans and Christians began; it was a way to make the custom less obvious, for chickens were allowed to nest where they would. Taking a basket out and gathering eggs in the morning was nothing remarkable. The Church paid young street children to search the fields and garden plots of those suspected to be Pagan. Had the family there missed a decorated egg, and this search found one, the priests would know them to be Pagan when one of the street children brought it in for a reward."

"What happened next?" Evanon said.

"If found, various pressures would have been put upon the family to convert, anything from a polite request to imprisonment and torture. Now, I have no direct knowledge so far as the eggs are concerned, but it makes sense considering other things I _did_ see. Of course, even if it were true at one time, no one now remembers that, or does it to commemorate such a thing."

"We're gettin' there, slowly," Chip said.

She smiled at him, this former enemy she had not known she had, who had pulled himself beyond what he'd been taught. "Aye, though I should not call it slowly. Remember that there are almost seventy generations of the Catholic Church's determined effort to stamp out ways of thinking about the divine other than their own."

"I've never been sure why they did that," Mikaela said.

"Power, to put it bluntly. A person loyal to another God was not a follower of theirs. The Church was a government back then, and at that time, people were not citizens but rather subjects, both of Church and Crown. No one was given a choice about either. Disloyalty was treason, or its equivalent. The concept of personal freedom had yet to be developed among European humans."

"There's also the Great Directive," Chip offered. "Christians are taught that theirs is the One True way, and that we do others a tremendous favor to tell and show them what our way is."

"Yes, and there is nothing wrong with that. It's only when it is combined with the drive to power that such things as forced baptisms happen."

"But I don't understand," Raf said slowly, "why they had to compete in the first place."

"Resources are scarce, Raf, when there are no trains or trucks or ships bringing food from all parts of the world. If you have to raise and grow all your own food, you want good land to do that on. And good land, in the Middle East, where both Judaism and Christianity began, is not so easy to come by. Much of it is very dry, too much so to raise crops on, like the desert here. The Jews were not numerous, and the priests of other religions were just as acquisitive of followers. It was an intensely competitive atmosphere, and in fact continues to be so today. Shi'ite and Sunni, Muslim and Christian, Muslim and Jew, Jew and Christian, all compete for breathing space in the Middle East, and always have." Diarwen stopped, and corrected herself. "Well, not _always_. Islam is only 1400 years old, and Christianity two thousand and a bit. But before that, the ethnic and religious groups which preceded them were driven by the same harsh climate and lack of resources."

"How old is Judaism?" Raf, inevitably.

"It can be traced back thousands of years, though most say that Abraham founded it. Of him we know only that the Bible's internal chronology places him in the second millenium BC, and tells us that he came from a city called Ur of the Chaldees. The ruins of this city have been found in Iraq, and it stretches back well beyond that date, which confirms the time-frame." She glanced at her students.

Raf said, "But the competition! Why couldn't they just trade for the things they each needed and get along? Have people anywhere _ever_ not fought over every little thing?"

"Oh, Raf," Diarwen said, her heart aching for him. "You have never lived in a time of peace, have you? Yes, there were times, when the world was young, that isolated tribes would meet in their wandering, and think not of war but of trading goods and tales, and of making marriages. If those things were not possible, they could go away from one another. But now, when people disagree, there is no place that is 'away' for them to go."

"But the things we fight about—religion, or being greedy and trying to take something someone else has—_why?_ There's more than enough for everyone, so why do we let a few people hog it all while other people don't have anything?"

Diarwen reached out with her fields, trying to ease the boy's sadness, if only for a little while. It was not easy to grow up and realize the world is not the wonderful place portrayed in children's tales. "It has been my experience that people are generally good, but most of us are followers, not leaders. Whenever there are hard times, it seems the—the bad apples, if you want to call them that—come forward with sweet words that sound sensible at first, promising power and ease. They persuade those around them to improve their lot at the cost of others, which increases their power; when the group has enough power, they force others to follow their teachings as well." She saw Jack Darby's eyes widen, but he said nothing, and after pausing for him she continued. "They convince others, and perhaps themselves, that their religion is the right one because they are stronger. That the 'different' is the 'wrong.' That it is all right to take everything for themselves that force of arms will permit, because they are 'the good people.' From there it is a short step to seeing those outside the group as evil because they are not 'the good people.'

"But the differences over which people argue and kill one another are very small. Look at Ostara and Easter. Ostara celebrates a return to life, Easter a resurrection, but do they not both celebrate the triumph of life over death? How _foolish _to turn to violence to settle which faith is the greater when when there are so many commonalities!

"Look you well. If you are chosen to lead, then you are chosen to serve your people."

Optimus, to whom that lot had fallen, smiled, but said nothing.

Diarwen continued, "If it is a time for you to follow, then yours is no smaller a responsibility than your leaders': to choose those leaders well. Do not let honeyed words convince you that you are better, that you are more deserving, that you are blessed of the gods. If you are judged to be great it will be because you have lived up to your destiny and earned it, each and every day.

"The divine calls each of us to service, whether in small ways or great. If you listen hard to what Christians call 'the still, small voice within,' you need no power-mad charismatic fool to lead you."

This time Jack did say, "But ..."

"Yes, Jack?"

Jack said earnestly, "I've been working a lot with Shad White. They pair us because we're both responsible; they can send us out unsupervised to do something and it'll get done. He told me the other day that the people he loved when he was an Eastlander all hate him now. I know from the news that Dowling killed a boy about Shad's age, and probably some others, too. Why? What kind of power is that?"

Diarwen paused. "One answer is that Horton Dowling was insane, Jack."

Jack nodded, curtly, and Diarwen didn't elaborate, did not wish to revisit that last horrific sight she had had of the man's body.

She looked at all of them, human, Sidhe, and Cybertronian alike. "The human is not the only race which suffers from such. Sentinel may have been another. Jaelin Stormfalcon of the Unseelie Court may be a third."

Evanon thought that Diarwen had just explained many things he knew about the Unseelie prince.

"Another is that some of us have fears of ourselves, of our true natures, that are deep and dark and driving. If we cannot bear what we are, we seek to destroy it in others; this was the source of Adolf Hitler's long campaign against the Jewish population of Europe.

"It is always easier to kill than to heal, to tear down than to build up. But in taking that easy path, we kill our souls, our spark. The divine does not call us to follow the easy path; it calls us, always, to follow the right one. To be brave and to fight: not to conquer, but to defend."

Optimus knew that truth down to his struts, but it was good to hear it spoken to others.

"Year after year, we are given a new spring, a new beginning, to turn away from wrong paths, and seek the one that leads to truth. Do not waste that opportunity." The Sidhe, Priestess of the Goddess, bowed her head, and fell silent, a silence that no one broke.

Colors was coming, Diarwen knew. Fortunately Jack's aura had settled, and the others, even after hearing of Shad's dilemma, were settling down.

"I fear our time is growing short," she said, "so we must return to planning for our Ostara festival."

End Part 23


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimers in Part 1

A biting cold wind blew off the Potomac as Charlotte Mearing locked her car in the parking lot of the Willow Oak Convalescent Center. The Center was an older brick building, two stories high, once a plain rectangular federal-style building with white columns in front. Wings at each side had been added; the old and new bricks did not quite match, but a heavy growth of dark green ivy trained to climb their junction disguised that.

A pair of old men sat on a park bench near the circular driveway in front, feeding some fat, lazy pigeons in full view of an even fatter, lazier ginger tomcat, who raised his head from the ground as Charlotte approached, her heels clicking on the sidewalk.

She wasn't interesting. His tail twitched once in aggravation, his head went back down, and he was still again.

"Afternoon, Miss Charlotte," one of the men offered in his quiet Virginia drawl.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Fallon. How are you today?"

"I'm doin' just fine, ma'am, yourself?"

"I'm well, thank you. Wonderful afternoon to sit outside."

"It sure is. Spring has sprung!"

Pleasantries out of the way, Charlotte nodded politely to his companion, who seemed to have no idea she was there. It was obvious why Mr. Fallon had not introduced them.

She climbed the stairs, took out her ID card, and pressed the security button beside the door. "Charlotte Mearing to see Annika Whitt, please."

"Swipe your identification, please, Director," came a polite but firm reply.

She did so. There was a discreet buzz and a click as the door unlocked, and she entered the building.

The lobby looked perfectly ordinary, until one noticed the automatic security doors that could seal off the area in seconds, and the bulletproof glass in the receptionist's window.

If a phony ID got someone inside the building, they were unlikely to get much farther. This was a Company facility.

She signed in at the receptionist's desk, and rode the elevator up to the third floor.

Mearing had joined the CIA in 1981, and on graduation from her training courses she was sent to the front lines of the Cold War in Europe. Lech Walesa's Solidarity movement would not lead the Gdansk shipyard strike for another seven years. The Berlin Wall would stand for another year after that.

Her handler at the time was an Austrian-American woman, Annika Whitt, daughter of a WWII soldier and his Austrian war bride. Whitt had been more than a handler to the inexperienced agent Charlotte was then; she had taken the younger Mearing under her wing, and taught her protegee how to navigate through, and even thrive within, the misogynistic world of the Cold War-era CIA.

Mearing had learned Whitt's lessons well.

Their duties had often taken them in different directions, and Mearing had been the only survivor when (as she learned thirty years after the fact) Sector 3 had been eradicated by a demon. Whitt had helped her through the aftermath of that debacle, an attempt by a misogynistic Old Guard higher-up to blame Mearing herself for those deaths: she saved Mearing's career and very likely her life.

"Helped" was, in fact, far too mild a verb to describe what Annika Whitt had done for Charlotte Mearing. And now, Mearing might have an opportunity to return that favor.

Whitt's retirement plans had gone out the window after 9/11. She had stayed in Europe to free up agents more familiar with the middle east; Mearing herself had been one such.

While Mearing had been in Afghanistan, someone surprised Whitt at a dead drop, and left her bleeding out in an alley. She told Mearing later that she used up all the luck she'd accumulated in her entire life when a couple of kids looking for somewhere to make out had stumbled across her and screamed for _die Polizei._

By the time an ambulance arrived, she had no measurable blood pressure. She coded twice on the way to the hospital.

Mearing was not usually a vengeful person, but Whitt's wounds had included a C4 spinal injury. That meant she had no use of either her arms or her legs, although her injury was sited low enough to keep her off a ventilator.

The people who bragged of their deed to the wrong ears had connections to al Qaeda. That had been enough for Charlotte to pull some strings and go after them personally.

Mearing had terminated a number of people whose faces she worked hard to forget. They sometimes flashed before her eyes on dark, sleepless nights, summoning up immense pangs of regret.

The faces of Whitt's assailants, on the other hand, she could remember in broad daylight, and felt nothing in the doing beyond great satisfaction.

Prolonged immobility raises health issues, and Whitt had had several bouts of pneumonia. These had taken their toll—as had the wear and tear of her long career, and age itself, the great leveler. Mearing thought sometimes that Whitt became slightly frailer every time she saw her.

The doctors told Whitt three years ago that she had six months left, but Mearing, riding the elevator, thought it was just like Whitt to defy her doctors' expectations. And through all the various assaults on her body, Whitt had escaped the ultimate insult of cognitive impairment.

Mearing tapped on the door frame of Whitt's room, and when Whitt called her in, she shut the door behind her.

"Charlotte! I was not expecting you until next week. Is something wrong?"

Charlotte smiled, and parked purse and briefcase. "No, but I do have something to discuss with you. How are you feeling?"

"The same as last week, and the week before. Enough of that. Have you been well?"

"I sit behind a desk all day. How would I be anything else?"

Whitt laughed. "The rewards of success, my dear Director. Come and sit down; tell me about this subject for discussion which is interesting enough to require that my door be shut."

Charlotte turned the bedside chair to face Whitt, who was propped up against pillows wearing a headband remote control (a gift from Mearing, via Wheeljack) which had a page-turning stylus attached at one temple. A book lay open before her.

Her room itself was charming; Whitt had simply moved the most treasured of her German family's graceful and unfussy Biedermeier antiques into the home with her. A sparkling-white counterpane spread over her bed, which was of course a hospital bed, but modified to accept an ancient carved headboard; the bedside table was of a piece with that headboard, as were the bedside chair, a massive bookcase filled to bursting, and a few occasional tables.

Pots of flowers marched across one windowsill: a poor substitute for gardening, Whitt had once told her, but she liked green things sufficiently well that their presence in her life was a source of constant pleasure.

The grace and simplicity of Whitt's chosen surroundings reflected her mentor's personality well, Mearing thought. "How much have you been following the Cybertronians on the news?" she asked, seating herself.

Whitt's eyes fastened on her face. "As much as anyone, I suppose. I can't imagine being uninterested in the aliens among us; all the tales of ancient astronauts turned out to be true. It says something about us as a species that that is not the news story of the century."

"Just so. But there is a lot more to it than reporters have made public. I need a non-disclosure agreement before I can read you in on all of it."

"Charlotte, that request would seem to indicate that you are thinking of reactivating me. How precisely could you do that?"

Very seriously, Mearing replied, "Reactivation might be in your future, Annika, depending on the choices you make once you've heard me out."

"That certainly earns you my signature on the NDF."

Mearing went to the small sink in the room, washed her hands, pulled on latex gloves, got her pen out, cleaned it with a germicidal towel, swung it back and forth to dry, sterilized an oral grip, inserted the pen, and offered it to Whitt, who took it into her mouth. For those who are vulnerable to infection, nothing is simple.

Mearing, still gloved, clipped the forms into place on the bookstand, turning pages as necessary while Whitt carefully scrawled her signature, now nothing like the elegant calligraphy she had used in letters to Mearing once upon a time. Mearing swallowed a lump the size of a grapefruit: Whitt's own handwriting would be the least of what her mentor might recover.

When Whitt finished, Mearing briefed her former handler on the real story of the Cybertronians, and more specifically, the Pretenders. Whitt listened carefully, rarely interrupting, sifting through the facts of Mearing's report and comparing it to the publicly available information which she already had from news reports and the internet.

When Mearing fell silent, she asked one question: "Twenty-six attempts, one failure?"

"Yes."

"Still, that is a bit better than a ninety-six percent success rate. Impressive."

"It is. But we don't know what happened with that single failure. Therefore we have no way to prevent the same thing from happening again." She paused for a moment. "His name was Rudy Opstein. The survivors still speak of him kindly."

Whitt let a moment go by before she said, "You present this to me, quite rightly, as a risk. However, it offers much better odds than I face for living through the next winter; I have been told that I won't survive another bout of pneumonia. But I would like a better idea of what my life would be like if I decide to do this. Might it be possible for me to speak to someone who has made this—transition—already?"

"I believe it might. I'd want the same thing. I'll see how quickly I can get one of the Pretenders out here."

Very quickly indeed: Scott Glasco knocked on Whitt's door midmorning of the next day. Few people, be they human or mecha, considered saying no to Charlotte Mearing, and far fewer than that said it to a determined Charlotte Mearing. And where Annika Whitt was concerned, Charlotte Mearing was very determined indeed.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

In Colorado Springs, Ironhide found a parking spot, and eased himself into it.

His passengers had been making no conversation between themselves. Will Lennox pretended to drive, and Lowell Zain stared out his window.

It was pretty odd to be carrying a Pretender as passenger, Ironhide found; Zain couldn't have enjoyed it either. At random intervals, their systems fell into, then out of, sync with one another.

The trip wasn't entirely pleasant for Lennox, either, who was confined in a small space with a slight, but steady, production of energon fumes.

Beyond Ironhide's windows Colorado lay like what seemed to be, after Nevada, the Canadian Arctic: vast snow over which blew an ice-laden wind that shoved knives of cold through Hide's barely-cracked window.

"Hide, you mind leaving my window cracked a bit?" Will said to his brother as Ironhide settled into immobility. "Thanks. —Zain, the two possible recruits we're going to see were Osprey pilots. You remember that raid on an oil refinery the Dreads carried out a few months before the Battle of Chicago?"

"That footage of the Osprey going down? That was them?"

"Yeah. Did the footage show what happened?"

"One of the Dreads threw a barrel of oil through the windshield of a helicopter, which clipped a power pole on the way down. These are those guys?"

"Slaggers," Hide growled.

Will smiled at the rearview, which functioned as an optic when Hide was in alt mode: he knew Hide meant the Dreads. "They're women, but yeah."

"Geez. Go ahead."

"Both of them were badly burned, as you might expect. They were invalided out on a medical. Since neither of them had homes to go to, one was in the foster-care system and the other had abusive parents she dropped like a hot rock when she enlisted, they took an apartment together here, near the VA hospital. They aren't there much. One has burns that won't heal, and the other has had a long string of infections."

Zain started to pound on the dash, then remembered that he wasn't in a nonsentient vehicle and took his anger out on his own knee instead. "Crap. If I needed any proof that life ain't fair..."

"I know. Anyway, for those reasons, I thought they might make good candidates for becoming Pretenders, and Hastings concurred. You and I are here to fill them in on the possibility, see what they think."

"I hope they go for it. It sounds like they might."

"We'll see. Pilots, you know?"

Zain thought about Frankie Reis. Yeah, pilots.

The apartment complex they walked four blocks to was somewhat older, in Lennox' opinion, than dirt. Old enough to have a touch of architectural grace about it; porticos (an unnecessary frill in modern eyes) were defined by Gothic arches (time- and labor-wasting), and each led to four exterior doors.

The numbers were posted on the front of each portico. It didn't take them long to find 428.

A knock on the door produced a thunderous response of barks.

"Lord!" Zain said. "That thing must be the size of a rhinoceros."

"Yeah," Lennox said. "You're takin' point."

Zain, who was bite-proof, grinned.

A woman's voice came through the barking. "Who's there?"

Lennox held his ID up to the peephole. "It's Will Lennox, and I'm with Lowell Zain, a civilian contractor. You have a moment, Nita?"

The barking shut off mid-yelp, and the door swung open.

She must have been the co-pilot, Zain realized. The right half of her face was a twisted mass of thickened, ropy scars, which had constricted one side of her mouth into a permanent sneer. The fire she lived through had taken her hair, roots and all, from that side of her head. Defiantly, she wore the rest long: a blonde middle finger raised to fate.

She returned his regard calmly for a moment, before turning her head to say, "Soletta? Will's here, with company." That showed him the undamaged side of her face; she had been very beautiful, once.

"Where's the dog?" he said, curious. She hadn't been gone from the door long enough to take it out.

In response, she nodded to a small electronic box on a table near the door. It bore the legend "Gatekeeper." "Neither one of us is well enough to walk a real dog consistently," she said calmly. "I'm Nita Clay." The hand she offered him was little more than a claw; she'd lost three fingers and the outer edge of her palm to the Decepticons.

He grasped it gently, and shook it.

She made a gesture of "this way" and led them into a small living room, mostly bare and scrupulously clean.

Soletta Davis lay in a recliner, a hospital tray-table pulled across her lap. On it, she was methodically working sudoku: sudoku hard enough to cross your eyes.

She'd been a pilot, a person who could solve high-level mathematical problems _in her head_, while keeping stable a rotary-blade aircraft: the Arab steed among airframes, notoriously skittish and hard to handle. She was reduced to this. Zain swallowed tears.

There were patchy bandages strewn along her arms and hands. One covered half her left cheek. The fire had taken less from her than it had from Nita Clay, but she was more vulnerable: her body rejected skin grafts, leaving her with open wounds, a lethal infection waiting to happen.

Introductions were made all around. Will said, "I've got a proposition for you both that you might find interesting, but I'll need a signature on an NDF."

Soletta grinned at him. "Been a long time since a good-looking guy had a proposition for me, Will. What you got?"

"A way out, maybe."

"Outta this?" she said, with a gesture that included the recliner, a massive glass-fronted cabinet filled with pill bottles, and the tiny apartment. "Bring it. I be chewin' off the end of my finger you ain't got a pen."

Will grinned at her. "You gotta at least _pretend_ to read the NDF first, Soletta. Nita?"

"I'll pretend to read it too."

"All right." He popped his briefcase took them out, passed them to the two women.

Lowell Zain, who had been looking out their window (it had a view of the parking lot) and fighting back tears, sat down by Nita Clay's damaged side. She gave him a startled glance and returned to her reading.

Both women finished signing at about the same time.

Lennox stacked the NDFs in his briefcase. "Okay. This is all about Cybertronians."

The air in the room grew a wee bit frosty. The two women exchanged glances. "We know a little more about them than we'd like to," Nita said.

"Less than you need to, though. Some Cybertronians are Pretenders."

"Pretenders?"

"They look human."

"_Human_?" said Soletta. "How can that be?"

Will shrugged. "The Cybertronians' grasp of material science is so different from our own I don't think anybody can tell you that, Soletta. And it gets better: we've found out how to transfer a human spirit into a Pretender frame—a Cybertronian body."

"You're shittin' me."

Will grinned. "No, I'm not. We're recruiting people whose physical situations are tough, but whose past performance might make them good candidates for the transfer. Wanna come back and play with us?"

"We'd be reactivated?"

"You'd be civilian contractors." He passed the boilerplate for the contract over. "To give you some idea of how important this is to all of us, there's one Pretender whose contract includes permission for his cat to be accommodated in base housing with him. Another lives on base with his father. If you're willing to give this a try, you've got a lot of latitude."

"The downside?" Nita said.

The two men exchanged glances. Then Zain said, "The downside is that you will have to be declared legally dead. There's a substantial risk, as well: out of twenty-six attempts, we've had one failure—a guy died in the middle of, or maybe because of, the attempted transfer."

"'We.'"

"Yes. I've transitioned to a Pretender frame."

There was a long pause, and the two pilots exchanged another glance. "I don't believe you," Soletta said simply.

He stood up and moved into the doorway to the dining room, made sure his tail knew where it was supposed to go so it didn't break the glass in that medicine cabinet of theirs, and transformed to root-mode.

"Holy crap," Soletta said. "Guess I believe you now." She glanced at her roommate. "Nita, I gotta say, 'When do I start?' or can I say 'When do _we_ start'?"

"'We' works," Nita Clay said.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"I approve of this place," Prowl said.

Jazz grinned at him. "Can't think _why_."

Prowl snorted.

The Pretenders' first training area was almost perfect. Perched on Portland, Oregon's West Hills, it overlooked the neat grids of Portland. To the east, urban sprawl eventually gave way to low hills. To the north, Mount Rainier was visible on clear days. If a bot climbed to the top of the West Hills, a clear vista south down the 1-5 corridor presented itself, and the Pacific Ocean lay hidden just beyond the curvature of the earth to the west.

It got the "almost" for two reasons. First, it wasn't usual to see a big rig plowing through the surface roads in the West Hills, which was a wealthy neighborhood beyond the reach of those who earned a living with their hands. Second, while it had a helipad, it also had a landing strip so short that Silverbolt, on first seeing it, had laughed and requested clearance at Portland International Airport.

Ratchet had been quite relieved by that, of course. But even the site's most obvious shortcoming had an offset in the Portland area: it was only sixteen and a half miles northeast to the Air National Guard base located at Portland International. In an emergency situation, their largest warframes were only ten to thirty minutes from the site.

And if PIA were bombed out of usefulness, Hillsboro Airport lay closer, twelve miles west. It would take that before they used a civilian airport, though.

A runway was clearly the easiest way to load and offload passengers or cargo, but once Silverbolt dropped them at an airport he could rejoin his brothers at the facility and drop directly onto the landing strip; alone of all the C-130s in the world, he was VTOL-capable. Probably Superion could be on site and combined a couple of minutes before the others got there.

Warfare was not the facility's everyday purpose, however: it was dedicated to the transition and early training of Pretenders. The supported living areas and clinic were used up until transition itself by Pretenders; after, they stayed briefly in other housing to begin training which would continue at Mission City.

Therefore, the Portland facility did not need to provide for the big bots, or for large aerials.

In the case of an emergency local to the Portland area, it offered a good base of operations for the other Sectors, as well as small to midsize Cybertronians.

So Prowl approved; anything that Prowl approved of, Jazz was ready to approve too.

End Chapter 24


	25. Chapter 25

[AN: This chapter contains reference to past attempted non-con. /AN]

Disclaimers in Part 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Fraggin' excuse for a road!" Ironhide swore as he navigated a narrow, deeply rutted goat trail that clung to a Colorado mountainside, halfway to the sky.

Lennox agreed. "The only places worse than this I've ever seen were in Afghanistan. When Greta said she was off the grid, she wasn't kidding."

"What's the deal with this Greta, Will?" Zain had remained behind in Colorado Springs to help the women pilots arrange for their trip to Portland, so it was just the two of them now.

"Sgt. Greta Morse, Army Corps of Engineers, stationed out of Kabul," Will explained. "Look, Hide, you know I'm proud of my service and Army life suits me—I'd have made a career out of it even if there hadn't been two wars and an alien invasion. But that doesn't mean I think there isn't room for improvement in the Army's treatment of soldiers, because there is. And, as far as women in the service are concerned, there's a hell of a lot of room for improvement.

"It doesn't originate with the Army. You have a lot of these young yahoos coming in who already have a disrespectful attitude toward women, and the military hasn't done a stellar job of training 'em out of it. Every time I'd get a bunch of new guys, I'd have to let 'em know right away that that bullshit wasn't gonna fly on my watch. But that wasn't the way a lot of other officers ran their outfits, and Greta was in one of those units. Man, will you look at that."

Hide looked but saw nothing remarkable. "I ain't a man, Will, so you'll have to explain what's remarkable about it to me."

"How big it is, and how wild."

"Wild" was outside Hide's experience, though he'd set ped on a lot of planets that had yet to know the touch of civilization's hand. He wouldn't have said "wild" in that tone of voice; his would easily have been readable as "underdeveloped." "Big," though, that he could give the panorama that lay before them: it looked like he'd need all day to cross the valley that sprawled out below and beyond their present position, a vast white punctuated only by pine trees. Across the valley the mountains took over again, and climbed toward the sky.

"Yeah," he said. "Big."

Will chalked that one off to the culture gap. "Greta, though...some of us were in a Hummer coming back to our quarters from a staff meeting, when Epps slams on the brakes. This guy stumbles out of this narrow alley right in front of us, bloody, and he's wearing an Army uniform. There's a fight going on, and we don't know what's up. We think, hell, he's into it with the Afghans—so we all jump out of the Hummer to help him out. Only there's him, there's three more of our guys, and there's Greta. Her uniform's ripped, her eye's black, she's been sliced from her ear all the way down to her chin, and she's got a K-bar in one fist that's ready for business.

"The other three guys took off when we dismounted the Hummer. I told Fig to check on the guy who got shoved in the street, and I advance into this narrow street they came out of, trying to calm Greta down. She's got a lot of adrenaline goin', she's got a combat knife, and she was holdin' her own against four other people, members of her own squad, for God's sake. I wasn't sure she realized the situation was under control now and I didn't want one of my guys getting hurt.

"So, I'm talking to her, you know, what's your name, soldier, what's going on here. She's still got her back to the wall, and she's looking all around everywhere, but her eyes are a little less crazy and she's answering my questions.

"These guys had been doing some work on a forward base, and it was Miller time, only there ain't a lot of Miller in Afghanistan."

"Miller time?" said Ironhide.

"Work was over and it was time to have a beer. But Afghanistan is a Muslim country, and Muslims don't drink alcohol. At all. Ever. Its presence in the country is tolerated only so long as it's not sold to Afghans, but American troops are expected to stay drier than a Nazarenes' convention in South Carolina. So they're doin' something indefensible when they tell Greta they found a bar and invite her to go out and have a few brews with them. They're her squad mates so she figures why not, which was indefensible on her side. Well, they planned for a little more than a few beers."

"A lot of beers?" Hide said, puzzled.

Ah for the culture gap. "No. They planned to grope her"—the air in Hide's cabin became thick with puzzlement—"to touch her body without caring whether that was okay with her or not. It wasn't okay, she put up a protest, and they all got kicked out. Once they were out in the street, the guys figured, hey, we got free rein here. Because in Afghanistan, almost nobody will come to the aid of a woman, and anybody who might do that won't mess with American soldiers. In the street, the fight really got started, and that's when we came in.

"So I've got her calming down and all of a sudden Greta jumps me and knocks me into a garbage heap and all hell breaks loose. Some Afghans planned to reason with the infidels; one moron had a gun and he took a shot at me. Greta saved my life, and got shot doing it. She lived, but she lost her arm."

Will Lennox watched some bad memories parade past out Hide's windshield, against a backdrop that might have come from a Christmas card sent three months late. "Once we were fired upon, we pacified the situation pretty quickly. But Hide, the brass was gonna pin the whole thing on Greta and send her home with a dishonorable discharge. She would've lost her VA benefits and everything. Those guys—they didn't get their asses kicked for assaulting a squadmate. Brass was gonna make Greta the scapegoat, probably not only because she lost her arm but because she's a woman. I wasn't going to let that happen, not after she got hurt saving another soldier's life, and _especially_ not if that soldier was me. The thing was, they were trying to cover up the attempted rape by blaming the victim, so I got Morshower involved. He doesn't put up with that crap either. He made them see that if they wanted it to go away, they had to give her an honorable discharge, a medical."

There was a noise like the one that results from throwing a bag of silverware at the wall. "What?" Lennox said.

"Closest translation I've seen in your language is 'assholes.'"

"Can't disagree with you there, brother. But I think you can understand the whole thing left a bad taste in Greta's mouth where the Army is concerned."

"Sure as the Pit would me, too."

"Yeah. So I made a point of keeping in touch. She stayed in rehab for a while, learned to use her prosthesis. Then she came up here and bought some land, built a cabin. She was happy, seemed to be doing all right. But then a few months ago, they found breast cancer. It had already spread. Inoperable."

"Aw, Primus. That's fragged."

"Yeah. But, now this Pretender thing comes up. I don't know if Greta will be interested, but if she is, hell, I think she deserves a shot at it."

"She sounds like she'd be an asset, but if she's got a bad opinion of the military, she might not be interested."

Lennox shrugged. "All we can do is ask. The thing is, S14 is on the civilian side of things. She wouldn't have to re-up."

"Yeah." Ironhide, negotiating something he'd later described to Chromia as "More like a disaster area than a road," hit a particularly juicy bump at ten miles an hour. Lennox hit his restraint belts hard enough to hurt, and Hide muttered another curse for what this pause-for-laughter road was doing to his suspension. "We're almost there," Ironhide said.

"Can't be too soon," Lennox grumbled.

"You said it, brother."

A side road that was nothing more than two dirt tracks covered by deep snow led into a valley with a promise of chimney smoke wafting up through thick pines. They could both smell it; Ironhide caught a glimpse of the source through the trees.

But the road...he stopped. "I'll never make it in alt mode, Will. I'm going to have to walk from here."

Lennox got out, pulled on his parka, and put on his rucksack, then adjusted his rifle to hang from his shoulder and not bang against his leg. Even on the edge of spring, no one with any sense came into the high country without proper equipment.

Maybe especially on the edge of spring, because bad weather now could quickly become "the last big storm of winter." Counting on good weather at this altitude because the calendar said it was the end of March had cost a lot of lives.

And this was Greta... "Make noise on the way in, Hide. This is wild country, and she knows all the Cons aren't dead. We need to announce ourselves."

Ironhide, who understood, grunted.

He broke trail, because he could more easily pick out the slight depressions in the snow that marked the access road beneath. Will followed far enough behind to give his partner plenty of maneuvering room on the uncertain footing.

Every one of Ironhide's ped prints gave him a few steps on nicely packed snow; between them, he trudged through knee-high drifts.

Hide asked, "How the slag does she get in and outta here for her treatments?"

"Snowmobile to a friend's place, then on horseback from there; his place is at a low enough elevation that the trails are safe for horses."

"And she does this after she's had chemo and is feeling really sick."

"Not exactly; you have the treatment at the high point of the cycle. The worst sick days are midway between—and that's when she's up here in the high country by herself. She still has to chop wood and carry water, and everything else that needs to be done."

Ironhide emitted a low whistle of admiration. Humans were small, fragile, short-lived creatures—but he knew when it came to sheer cussedness, they could be as tough as any Cybertronian alive. This Greta, though, she sounded tougher than both the Big Twins put together, and they'd survived enslavement in the gladiator pits of Kaon.

He couldn't wait to see her argue with Ratchet, if it all fell out that way.

It was a long slog downhill to the ranch—they were going to have to climb back out. Just slaggin' _lovely_. "Talk about the aft end of nowhere!"

"This is God's country, all right."

Ironhide pushed a tree branch out of his way, then let it go once it was behind him. "God's country? What's your Deity got to do with it?"

A Cybertronian-sized pile of snow fell off the limb and inundated Will. As he did an ungraceful little dance to get it out of his coat before it melted, he explained, "God created it, God forgot it, and God damn it!"

Ironhide's booming laughter echoed across the mountainside.

The last hundred yards were easier: Greta had blazed a snowmobile trail. Lennox knew it looped down the valley toward a friend's distant spread, where she kept her horse in the wintertime.

There was a paddock surrounded by a wooden fence, a barn, and beyond that, a small, neat cabin with fragrant smoke rising from a stove pipe. There was a large stump near a pile of firewood, not too far from the cabin, not so close as to encourage pests to move from the wood pile to the warm cabin. Rope lines at about waist height, their wooden props visible only where the ever-present wind had scoured them free of snow, ran from the cabin door to the woodpile and the well, marking out a tramped path that would disappear when whiteout conditions obtained.

Only two items would have been out of place in the 1800s: the shiny snowmobile next to the porch, and a satellite dish, carefully placed so that mountains and trees did not obscure its view of the bird high above: Greta liked her football and her internet.

Ironhide's first sight of Greta Morse was on the wrong end of her rifle sights: she'd heard him coming. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that some surviving 'Con had tracked her down out here; it wasn't unknown that she and Will were friends, and that could very well make her a target even though she had never served in NEST. She kept a mag of sabot rounds for just that eventuality, though she never really expected to need them.

Her jaw dropped as she recognized Lennox.

Laughing, she put her rifle back inside the door and shouted, "Come on up, coffee's on! What the hell are you doin' all the way out here this time of year?"

"Got somethin' important to talk to you about!"

"Well, come on in and get warm first. Um, Ironhide, I'm sorry, but I don't know what I could offer you."

"Room in your barn to get out of the wind, ma'am?"

Greta grinned. "Sure thing." In these parts, a lady expected a gentleman to call her ma'am. He'd gone up several notches in Greta's estimation by taking the time to learn that, and having the class to put it into practice.

She shrugged into her own coat, unlocked the barn, and opened the large sliding door for him to transform and roll inside.

It was neat as a pin. With Greta's mare living elsewhere for the time being the stall was squeaky clean, and the horse smell very faint. A workbench and some storage shelves along the other side of the barn held a nice assortment of tools, well maintained and ready to be put to use.

Out of an ice-laden wind, Ironhide could enjoy the insulating airspace under his plating. The barn would trap his radiated heat as well, and warm up nicely in a short time. Like his quarters on the Lennox farm back in Maryland, it was solidly built of wood, a natural insulator. Contented, he was dozing by the time Greta shut the door on him; she didn't lock it.

If a thief happened along and tried to steal Ironhide, she'd tell them where best to lose the body so that scavengers got most of it.

Lennox followed Greta back to the cabin where, just as she had said, coffee was steaming atop the cabin's pot-bellied stove. A twin bed near that warmth was neatly made up with an army blanket and a colorful quilt; windows on three sides sported heavy curtains to insulate them.

One set was now open to admit light, and Lennox could see the solar panels on the roof of a small shed out back, which provided enough power for her laptop and a few small appliances arranged on a shelf over the dry-sink countertop.

Prep space was pretty minimal, because everything Greta ate was canned, powdered, or dried. He thought she probably had a metal meat locker somewhere outside for the fruits of her hunting, with its contents very well wrapped so the scent didn't attract animals. She likely made a lot of jerky.

What she did not have was running water. A large bucket with a dipper rested on a stand near the dry sink, and another waited below to catch the used water.

Only Greta's bald head gave any obvious sign of her status as cancer patient. Will didn't see that until she pulled off her winter cap and hung it on a peg with her coat—heavy, no-nonsense real sheepskin, wool-side-in.

But, once the coat was off, Lennox could see other signs of her illness as well. For one thing, she had lost forty pounds since the last time he had seen her. Always rangy and rawboned, she was left razor thin, as though the illness had burned away everything extraneous and left only steel behind. Her skin was papery thin, like a very old person's, and peppered here and there with small bruises.

Lined up on her night stand like soldiers on parade, an impressive collection of prescription bottles marched in formation to the wall: the dead giveaway that she was fighting for her life. Each bore an array of stickers detailing how it was and was not to be taken. With food, on an empty stomach, not on an empty stomach...do not take with alcohol...

Most people would have been more distracted than Will was by Greta's prosthesis; he noted only that it made a small noise of servos, sensors, and tiny motors.

In the city, with urban background noise, it would have been notable only for its appearance. Greta had chosen it for utility, and its varied metal digits were practical for everyday use on a high country ranch, making no attempt to look like fingers. The forearm portion was covered by a heavy flannel shirt, and only those metal digits were visible.

One side of her shirt hung loose. Out here in the middle of nowhere, someone as comfortable in her own skin as Greta Morse did not bother with that prosthesis.

She poured two cups of coffee and set out the sugar bowl. "You take cream? I have some of the powdered stuff."

"No, thanks, black's fine," Lennox said. "After all that work gettin' here, though, I'll take some sugar."

She dropped a cozy over the coffee pot to keep it warm, and set a pot of beans which had been soaking overnight on the stove in its stead. When the beans were done, she would make corn cakes to go with them in a cast iron skillet. There was no way to bake.

Lennox thought that Sarah and Annabelle would have loved the simple, natural life that Greta had made here for herself: fishing and tending her garden in the warm weather, hunting when it was cooler, mending and reading by the fire when the snow flew. It was timeless inside this little cabin; Greta lived a life that had not changed in its rhythms for centuries.

"Great place you have here."

"Thanks. When I bought it, the barn and that shed out back were all that was here. The old house burnt down a long time ago. I've got some friends down the valley who helped me clear the site and put up the cabin; we cut the timber for it here on the property. I finished the inside and did everything else myself."

"Reminds me of my family's old home place. It's a farm on the Maryland shore. Big old barn like that, and you can sit on the porch and watch the fishing boats sail by. There's nothing that peaceful in the city."

"Yeah. I turned out the lantern and sat up late last night watching the northern lights. They're amazing up here. We saw them when I was growing up in Denver, but they were nothing like they are here. Too much light in the city." Greta sipped her coffee. "I don't mean to be rude, but my curiosity is getting the best of me. What brings you up here this time of year—you and Ironhide?"

"I have something to talk to you about, but you need to sign a non-disclosure form first."

She turned serious. "Well, before I do that, what are you able to tell me, Will?"

"There's a way you can beat the cancer, outright, if it doesn't kill you cleanly in making the attempt."

She snorted. "That's better'n what I got ahead of me, that's for sure. But a cure? Is that what you're talking about?"

"Leaving it totally behind, zero chance of it returning, yeah. But I really can't tell you anything else until you sign the form."

"This is just an NDF, right? I'm not agreeing to anything else?"

"That's right. It's entirely your choice what to do with the information, you just can't talk about it with anyone."

"OK. I don't exactly have neighbors over the back fence to gossip with!"

Lennox laughed and got up to get a manila envelope out of his inside coat pocket. Greta shook the form out onto the table. She read through it, then signed and dated where Lennox indicated.

He explained first what a Pretender was, then told her about S14. She listened to his narrative without question or comment, then asked several pertinent questions about the process and what life was like as a Cybertronian. Lennox got out his cell phone and pinged Ironhide, setting the phone on the table where its camera had a view of both of them. He let Ironhide field most of the questions.

Pretenders were just small Cybertronians, after all, and humans already had "small" down. Hide was best prepared to answer questions about the "Cybertronian" part.

"Hide, we're going to eat, but I'd like to leave the phone on," a very thoughtful Greta said, and started the corn cakes. Will got out two bowls and spoons without being asked, and ladled out beans, rich with pork and onions. She had more questions, good insightful ones, and asked them as she minded the corn cakes.

Once they were finished, she served them. She pulled her own corn cake into bite size pieces and added them to the bowl, actions that Lennox could only describe as mindful. She was entirely present in the moment.

To his knowledge, Greta was not a witch, but he associated that presence, that awareness of the significance of living this moment, with his sister, and with his sister-by-choice, one Diarwen ni Gilthanel. Maybe he should have simply associated it with wise ones, no matter where they came from.

Greta put down her spoon. "Will, Ironhide, this is all a little overwhelming. You're asking me to give up everything I know about being who I am, but cancer's going to take all that anyhow, and you're offering me a chance to live, not be consigned to a horrible suffering death. I ought to be asking you where I sign up. It's probably stupid to hesitate." She hesitated, this big, tough woman who had successfully held off four combat-trained soldiers: men she had mistakenly accepted as comrades. "But," she said softly, "when this is all over, will I still be me?"

Will said, "Yeah, Greta, I'm pretty sure you will. I mean, nobody gets close to buying the farm without coming away from it changed somehow. You see what's important and what isn't pretty sharply. But the first guy who did this, Dr. Pierpoint, did it by accident. He said when he woke up he didn't even realize he'd transitioned until he saw his human body lying there."

She grinned in spite of herself; she could imagine the hoohaw _that_ created. "You've always been straight with me, Will. The people who've done this, do they regret it?"

"If any of them have regrets, I don't have any evidence of it. They're like a bunch of kids with new toys."

Ironhide said, "I haven't seen any signs of regret either. Some of them were elders before they transitioned. They still have that mindset, y'know, bein' more careful and thoughtful than younglings usually are, but when they're off duty? A lot of the times they're like Cybertronians who just got their adult upgrades all over again.

"We've seen that before, because this isn't a new thing for us. Every so often—it's a long time for humans, thousands of your years—we wear out a frame and have to get a new one. After a reformat, we act just like they do. You see, after you go through an aging cycle once, you appreciate physical youth more and enjoy it while it lasts."

Will found himself hoping he'd live long enough to see that happen for his brother. Ironhide on a joyful tear? Who'd willingly miss that? Ratchet had said due to the cumulative damage from the war Hide was overdue, but a reformat depended on recovering the ability to build him a new frame.

Greta said thoughtfully, "We have a legend of the fountain of youth. It's supposedly a spring somewhere in Florida. If you drink from it, it makes you young all over again. That's what this sounds like."

Will nodded. "The only thing that will change is your body. From everything we can tell, whatever makes you _you_ turns into a Cybertronian spark, and uses a processor just like we do a brain. It won't change you any more than using your prosthetic does."

"Hmm. I see what you mean." She scooped up a spoonful of beans and a bite of cornbread. "I need to think. Are you going to stay the night? You should, that mountain road is dangerous after dark, and I think it would be even for Ironhide."

"If I can camp in the barn with him, sure."

He was a married man, and she clearly had no guest accommodations in the cabin. He had cold weather camping gear in Ironhide's subspace, and if it got really bad, he had Ironhide's passenger space.

"No problem. I'll give you an answer first thing in the morning."

Lennox thought Greta probably wasn't planning on getting much sleep that night.

He offered to chop wood and get water, and Greta accepted gratefully. While he was outside, she celebrated the occasion by cooking up a dessert of dehydrated apples, raisins, oatmeal, candied ginger, and cinnamon. It was delicious, as well as nicely filling, and warming after hard work in sharp, cold air, performed at an elevation several thousand feet higher than Lennox was accustomed to.

They finished their coffee while they watched the stars come out, talking of inconsequential things, simply two soldiers passing the time.

Lennox surprised himself by falling asleep mid-sentence as soon as he zipped himself into the sleeping bag, and he slept so soundly he didn't hear Hide snort at this organic behavior.

The next morning, he discovered the use of the small shed out back when he got up to use the other small structure out back, and saw Greta dashing from the shed to the cabin barefoot, one arm of her bathrobe flapping behind her, with a towel draped over her head. "Is that a bath house?"

"Yes, and sauna! Help yourself!" The cabin door banged behind her; she wasn't staying out there in the snow any longer than absolutely necessary.

Will replenished the fire, and ducked outside to get more water for washing and steam. While the sauna reheated, he washed off in a basin, then dumped a ladle of water on the hot stones and stretched out on the bench. Heaven!

When he got too hot, he grabbed a towel for modesty and dived into a patch of fresh snow, then ducked back inside the sauna. The second time he repeated this ritual, Ironhide demanded, "Will, what the _frag _are you doing?"

He laughed and shouted, "Google 'sauna!'"

Ironhide established a satellite connection to do so, and decided that a conclusion he drew long ago had been right all along: organics were glitched.

Will dressed and made the dash from the sauna to the cabin, where his breakfast was waiting.

Greta had finished some minor maintenance on her prosthesis, and was sitting on the bed with her back to the door as she finished buttoning her shirt, with a crocheted shawl bundled around her as much for warmth as for modesty. Will sat with his back to that side of the cabin and dug in.

After the breakfast things were cleaned up, they went outside to talk. Ironhide let them in his cab and rolled out into a sunny patch beyond the teeth of the gnawing wind, where he could make some energon.

Greta said, "I've been thinking, and I'd be an idiot not to at least go to Portland and check it out, talk to some of the Pretenders if I can. I don't know, I keep going back and forth between everything I'd be losing and everything I stand to gain. I mean, I won't eat the same food. I won't be able to ride any more because I'll be too heavy to sit a horse, unless I buy myself a Percheron. From your reaction, Ironhide, I doubt saunas will be that enjoyable."

The weaponsmaster replied, "No, but we do have washracks, and they're not strictly to get the dirt off. Also we don't only drink energon straight from a cube, though that's where most of our energy comes from. There are things like oil cakes and rust sticks that are more like what you'd call food, too, and we put different flavorings in our energon. Sometimes those are things we need to consume, but more of 'em just give it a taste that we like.

"Different isn't necessarily worse. Since I've never been human I just have to extrapolate from what the humans I know well have told me about what's like to be a human. I think the other Pretenders will be able to tell you more about what replaces human things, for them anyway, but not all the Pretenders are the same, just like not all other Cybertronians are the same. I think if you keep a few open processor threads, you'll discover on your own what you like. What I can tell you is, I didn't get to know any Pretenders until after they'd already come to terms with their transition. And they all have. When I'm around them their fields are what you'd expect a bot's fields to be like. I don't see why you wouldn't get along as well as they have."

Somehow, Lennox knew that Greta had made her decision. But he chose his words carefully so as not to push her if he was wrong: "What kind of help do you need to get your stuff together and close this place up for a trip to Portland?"

She turned her thin face away from her beloved mountains. "Well, I've got the horse at my friend's place, but he won't have a problem boarding her long term, or maybe he'll be interested in buying her; have to see. I'll need to stop at his place and pay him for her board. I'll take the canned stuff that would freeze, and see if he wants the rest of the food I have here, since I won't be needing it. I'll be taking my tools and my computer with me, so I need to pack those up, and the snowmobile needs to be put in storage."

Ironhide said, "You mean summerize it and lock it in the barn? I can do that while you and Will pack up the stuff you're taking with you."

"Yeah, there's not too much to it. Everything you'll need is on the shelf above my workbench in there. Grab a piece of steel wool and put it in the tailpipe, to keep the mice from making a nest in there."

Ironhide cringed. He didn't want to wake up to find a mouse nest in one of his stacks or anywhere else for that matter. He immediately set a subroutine to work designing a minor transformation to screen such gaps in his plating while he recharged.

Will said to Greta, "Separate the stuff you'll take to Portland and the stuff you might want to have stored for you at the Mission City base."

"OK. I guess a lot of it can stay here; I have some friends who can use the cabin if they want to and they'll need things while they're here."

The three of them got to work. When Ironhide finished with the snowmobile, he split the rest of the firewood and added it to the stack, ready for use by anyone who might happen upon the cabin in an emergency.

By then, Will and Greta were finished in the cabin. Greta went into the barn to pack up her tools while Will raked the coals out of the sauna heater and made sure they were thoroughly extinguished.

That was the last task they had to perform to be ready to leave.

Greta took a final look around her tiny living space to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything, and stood on the porch for a long moment, taking in the last view of her beloved mountains.

Ironhide committed the video file to memory, and sent it to her email.

Greta picked up the backpack containing all her necessities, including a bag of meds that would halfway kill her to kill her cancer, and opened Ironhide's passenger door: the portal to her new life.

End Part 25


	26. Chapter 26

Disclaimers in Part 1

One Samuel Witwicky was glad to be home; he'd been there for two days now, and they were, he thought, the shortest two days on record.

It was early on a Monday morning, after colors. The day shift started work about the same time that dependents who worked or attended school off base left for their obligations; base housing was now quiet.

Which was good, because Carly had put in a rough night, with an ache in her lower back. Danny was anxious to be born, and he expressed that sentiment by kicking—a lot, and strenuously. Sam teased Carly that her son was going to meet the world thinking his name was "Ow stop that!"

His wife had been vastly unamused.

A couple of hours ago, both Carly and the baby had finally gone to sleep. Sam crept out of the bedroom and landed on the couch for a little while, in order not to wake her by turning over in his sleep. But he was too used to getting up and catching the metro to sleep past his alarm, which had apparently internalized itself: seven o'clock Washington time was four AM in Nevada. He was up for the day, which would end about 8 PM Nevada time for him.

Carly had been on a cleaning frenzy prior to his homecoming, and hadn't stopped when he arrived. Diarwen told him that was called nesting, and apparently many pregnant women had that urge when they were near term.

He looked around the living room and winced, pulled on his jeans, and started picking up yesterday's pizza box, newspapers, and junk mail, before Carly got up and freaked out over their pigsty.

A very well-dusted, swept-and-mopped sty, occupied by OCD pigs...the thought made him smile as he collected the clutter.

By the time Brains and Wheelie came out of their alcove, Sam was making scrambled eggs with toast and coffee, just to keep the hunger pangs at bay; he'd need more by the time she got up. Lunch for him, breakfast for her.

"Morning," he said, by way of greeting.

Wheelie chirped, "Mornin', Pops!"

Sam didn't want to know where the little bot had gotten that, and scowled at them. Undisturbed, Wheelie said, "How's Carly?"

"Sleeping, finally, so keep it down. Would you mind checking if the paper is out there? I think I heard Tammy's bike a little bit ago."

Wheelie pulled out his keyring and opened the minibots' personal door. Sam had installed a St. Bernard-sized dog door for their use, one with a lock, making sure they both had their own personal keys to that lock. To do otherwise would have been to treat them like glorified pets.

Sam might have done that once, but he knew better now. He might regret a lot of the mistakes he had made during Brains' and Wheelie's first few years with him, but the lessons they taught him would make him a better parent.

He was also determined to make up for those mistakes. Bumblebee assured him that the minibots hadn't held his errors against him, and were tolerant of his attempts to compensate for past blunders.

Brains and Wheelie were sparked mecha, just as Optimus Prime and Bee himself (although anyone hearing those four names proposed as equals would probably have fallen to the floor laughing). Wheelie was roughly at the developmental level of a college-age human, not that much younger than Sam himself. Technically, Brains was a sparkling, brought online only since the Autobots had arrived on Earth, but Jazz had said he was also a youngling as far as processor development and programming were concerned.

Brains had copied programming he lacked from Wheelie when neither of them knew any better than to do that. Now, though, they were no more alike than any two other Cybertronian younglings raised in the same cohort.

Fortunately no harm had been done, and the jump-start had probably saved Brains' life in the rough-and-tumble early years of his existence.

Wheelie brought the paper in. Seeing nothing to interest him on the front page, he put it on the coffee table and went back to the game that he and Brains had been playing.

Sam set his coffee cup down and turned around to get another helping of eggs.

The skillet tumbled to the floor.

Blood everywhere, white sheets lurid with what seemed like gallons of blood, dripping to the floor beside the bed. He crossed the kitchen and the hall in two steps and threw open the bedroom door.

Carly was out like the proverbial light, with a catch in her throat Sam told himself was not a snore, not a drop of blood in sight. Neither the crashing skillet nor his abrupt entry had disturbed her much-needed rest.

Sam shut the door, and dropped to his knees on the carpeted hallway floor, his heart pounding against his ribs as he gasped for breath. He got his breathing under control, slow deep breaths, focus, ground, center. Then he deliberately replayed the vision, looking for small clues to the who, what, where, when, and why that he needed to know in order to change the possible future that he had just glimpsed.

A discarded rubber glove.

IV tubing.

Someone's foot, in white nurse's shoes, a glimpse of a pants leg from a pair of scrubs.

Polished institutional floor.

Hospital bed.

He dug out his cell phone, shaking so hard it took three tries, and called the number Parker had given him in case he had questions.

"Dr. Parker? It's Sam, Sam Witwicky. Look...sometimes I have visions that turn out to be true. This time I saw blood all over, all over, dripping to the floor beside a hospital bed, and Carly..."

Parker had been given the information about his visions earlier, and didn't stop to make him explain that further. She heard him out, and said instead, "Okay, Sam? Two things. First is that you might have seen the delivery of the afterbirth, which is the placenta. Its job is to feed the baby, and it does that with blood vessels; it's practically nothing but those. After birth, it's shed, and not only does that tear its vessels away from their anchor, it tends to break the delicate vessels inside it too. Afterbirth is really bloody, Sam, and in my rotation through obstetrics I did see what you're describing a couple of times in perfectly normal deliveries, no danger to mom or baby. Second, just to be sure, I'm going to check supplies, and order a few more units of blood from Nellis. It never hurts to take precautions."

He blew a deep breath through the line between them. "Thank you, Dr. Parker. I wish you were delivering Danny."

"Sam, Dr. Wexford from Nellis has thirty years' experience in OB/GYN. I don't. You want that experience, Sam, you really do."

He tried to calm himself. "Dr. Parker, I know that...it's just..."

"It's okay, Sam. It's pretty scary, and I know that. We're going to do everything we can to keep Carly and Danny safe. _Everything_."

He sounded a bit steadier when he said, "Thanks, Dr. Parker. I really appreciate that."

"No problem," she said. She let him ring off, rather than terminating the conversation.

She resumed her duties, thinking that sometimes, simply being there for a patient or family was the best possible practice of medicine. Not often, not with the enormous skill and knowledge now brought to bear on problems, but when it was, there really wasn't any substitute for simple human kindness.

Well, human. Parker recollected Ratchet and the kindness of his wrenches, and smiled.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen hummed a new tune as she worked in the small kitchen of her shared quarters, cleaning up now after a long stretch of cooking, with some non-food "cooking" up next.

The dough for the hot cross buns she had made for cakes and ale was rising under its cheery yellow towel, the bowl located in a beam of direct, if wan, March sunlight.

Diarwen carried a tray to the other side of the room and sat at her desk, located under Optimus', safely away from anywhere he might put his peds. She was going to mix the incense for the ceremony, and didn't want the herbs to get in her bread dough. Bay, jasmine, and rose petal were all edible, but would definitely not be tastes anyone was expecting in a hot cross bun. As for copal...well, no.

She was in no hurry. She had plenty of time to get everything ready. The Circle would start gathering after sunset, and the moment of Ostara was not until 10:14 that night.

High above, Optimus was reading reports from a datapad when he sensed her energy fields focus on charging the incense. He took a moment to settle his own fields to a peaceful neutrality, so as not to distract her or introduce the wrong energies into her work area, then turned back to what he was doing.

He was mildly puzzled by the disappearance of two fifty-gallon drums of corn syrup from the galley. A query about it had gone out to all the senior officers on both sides of the Commons. It was probably involved in a prank planned by one of the usual suspects. He flagged the query for Prowl's attention, and went on to the next issue.

Diarwen got out the mortar and pestle she used solely for inedible ingredients, and set to work: her concentration on the task would infuse the incense with devotional energy, useable when they began their ritual.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Carly slept through the first two contractions. They were very mild, less attention-grabbing than some of the Braxton-Hicks contractions that she had experienced intermittently for the past few weeks.

The third one woke her. Her first thought was to call Sam, but she had learned that there was no need to do anything until they lasted around a minute, were five minutes apart, and both conditions had lasted for an hour. She decided to rest a little while longer before creating the uproar that she knew would follow the announcement that she was in labor. After all, at her last checkup she'd been pronounced "doing fine, Carly. All your tests are normal, and I'll have you make the appointment for next week, but I'd be surprised not to see you before then." Dr. Wexford, calm and collected as always; at the Nellis AFB hospital, he had been delivering babies for so long that he was on his second generation of parents.

He had assured her that all her tests were perfectly normal. So, she decided, everything was going to be fine.

Carly dozed off again until the next one reawakened her, and got up to shower and check her bag one last time. "Sam, love, are you ready to go out?"

"Yes, but wouldn't you like something to eat first? I can make more eggs."

"I think I should hold off on that for a bit," she said, smiling at him as he poked his head around the bedroom door.

"What—do you mean it's time? Now?"

"Not quite yet. But I'm fairly sure I am in labor this time."

"And you've checked your bag. I—ah, it couldn't hurt anything to call medbay and give them a heads-up."

"I suppose so. Let me have another look at the baby's bag while you do that."

Sam went out in the kitchen to call, and zipped back in. "Dr. Parker says medbay isn't busy, so we can come over whenever you like and get you settled in. Then when the time comes, she can have Dr. Wexford paged at O'Callaghan. It won't take him any time to get down here."

She smiled. "I guess you're right; there's no sense to doing everything in a rush if they have plenty of room."

Her husband gathered her close, angling around her "sublet" as she called it, and kissed her. "I'll call Bumblebee to take us over when he has a klick."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"For Primus' sake," Chromia snapped.

Ironhide craned his neck struts. All he saw was Bumblebee, pacing back and forth outside of med bay. He said so to Chromia.

"Yes, yes, yes," she said. "He's distracted to pieces. Take him out to the range and shoot things with him, will you? Keep him there until I ping you. If you can get Sam to go too, that would be best."

But Sam declined, flatly if politely. He occasionally popped out to get something Carly wanted, but most of the time he was right there with her, coaching her through the contractions, rubbing her back or her feet, providing a convenient target when she felt like swearing. Earlier, they had done a bit of walking, but Carly's contractions were now too intense for that.

Sam was with her, though, to provide whatever she needed. He explained this to Chromia using the minimum possible words: "Thanks, Chromia, but I can't. Carly needs me."

Being a grounder from Iacon, Chromia knew little more about Cybertronian separation than she had picked up from Borealis' occasional comments. She knew even less about human birth, though the internet search she embarked upon revealed that she had been operating on outdated information. Modern human fathers usually were present for the debut of their offspring. She smiled. "I understand. I'll stay here to run and fetch for you, if you like."

"Thanks, Chromia, I'd really appreciate that."

Carly called from inside, "Sam! Sam, could you fix this pillow, please?"

"Gotta go."

Ironhide smiled at his departing back, transferred the smile to Chromia and then sent it on to Bee. "Come on, Bee. Chromia's got this under control, and she'll ping us if they need us. We're too big to run their errands, and we're in the way."

Bee chirped assent, and the two left. Chromia transformed to park against the wall by the medbay doors, where she wasn't blocking traffic.

From there, she had a good view of the bustle in Admin, where Sideswipe was currently in charge and keeping an optic on something on a couple of the upper-deck monitors while bantering with Arcee. The humans were working at their stations with the quiet, competent professionalism she had come to expect from them over the years, broken occasionally by a brief outburst of laughter. No cause for concern there.

Further down the Commons, the sparklings, human and Cybertronian, were coloring. Monique had sorted out crayons for D'andre in the same hues as his blocks, given him a big piece of paper, and allowed him to color just as he wished.

"Just as he wished" produced colored squares in the same sequence in which he always ordered his blocks. No one pretended to understand D'andre's worldview, but clearly he was happiest when things were properly organized.

Chromia heard an unfamiliar Earth car park out front and focused on the main entrance at the far end of the hangar. A middle-aged couple entered with a NEST escort, and paused to show the visitors' badges that they had received at the main gate to the guard on duty at the entrance.

Chromia pinged the ward clerk's cell phone, and when she answered, said, "Please tell Sam his parents are here."

Ron and Judy Witwicky were frequent visitors; they lived in Tranquility, a few minutes' drive from the base. The senior Witwickys had been part of the Cybertronians' lives since Optimus and his crew landed, and the relationship was already well-established by the time Chromia's group arrived.

Her first impression had been that Ron tended to be passive, while Judy was flighty, and Chromia had wondered if Sam's mother had the human equivalent of a slow processor. Ron was a veteran of the first Gulf War, though, and she had discovered that when things got dicey he fell back on his training and was actually quite capable: the capable rarely bonded to those who were not. So there was more to Judy than her usual..."ditziness" was the word the humans used...might suggest.

Sam came out and hugged both of his parents. Judy asked, "How long has she been in labor?"

"Since this morning. Dr. Parker says it will be a while—it's not time to call the obstetrician yet. She was walking between contractions at first; apparently that helps to speed up the process."

"How's she doing?" Ron asked.

"Good. Great. Everything's happening the way it's supposed to."

"Can we see her?"

Sam said, "I'll check. Chromia, could you see if you can find them some chairs? I don't think there are any extra in medbay."

"I'll liberate a couple from the mess," Chromia said, and left to do that.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Shad White sat in front of his computer, and his mind wandered. What had happened to those kids who'd left the compound before David...before his dad...before? He hoped they were well and doing fine, at least alive, and happy if they could manage that. Then he fell to thinking how much he would rather be outside, where Shankie waited for him; then he felt guilty, and returned to the math lesson for the day. Graphing a series of linear equations wasn't hard, but boring? There was no graph big enough to express how boring it was. He was very happy when his work timer pinged, signalling the start of a 15-minute break.

A few seconds later, a chat bubble popped up.

LNeilson: Hi Shad!

SWhite: Hi, Leah. Whatcha doin?

LNeilson: Thomas Jefferson & the Declaration of Independence.

SWhite: At least that's interesting. Graphing equations here. Head about to explode.

LNeilson: LOL don't do that, sounds messy.

SWhite: HaHaHa Where did u find a computer?

LNeilson: There's a library close 2 my apartment. They have computers. How are you getting along?

SWhite: Pretty good actually. Place is going baby crazy. This woman is having one.

LNeilson: You mean now?

SWhite: Yep. In medbay.

LNeilson: What's a medbay?

SWhite: Like a mini hospital.

LNeilson: Cool. Know what it is yet?

SWhite: No. I haven't heard whether it's been born yet. How are you doing?

LNeilson: Good. Mom has a job sitting with this old lady upstairs in our building. I'm glad she only has 2 go up the elevator.

SWhite: That's good! Happy she found something. That will help out.

LNeilson: Yeah, a lot.

SWhite: Have you heard from anyone else?

LNeilson: Yes! I was getting some food from the Salvation Army, and I was in line with Mordecai Phillips! He's doing good, but he says he's living in a tent on the riverbank, a hobo camp or something.

SWhite: That sounds awful.

LNeilson: He looked pretty good though. I'm glad we don't have 2 live in a hobo camp.

SWhite: So am I. Anyone else?

LNeilson: No, but if I see Mordecai again I'll ask him. He might know.

SWhite: I'd like 2 know.

LNeilson: Got 2 go, break is almost over, tty tomorrow. Pet Shankie 4 me.

SWhite: Will do. He's doing good BTW; watched your vid of the commands and obeyed them. Bye

LNeilson: Bye

Shad sighed, stretched in his chair, and got up to get some water as the chat window disappeared. When he returned, he still had the last seven minutes of his break left: time enough for a few rounds of Angry Birds.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

::We've been at this a half-joor,:: Bee sent, when the local star was a little past zenith. ::It feels to me like something's looming over Carly and the baby, some threat, and I can't tell what it is.::

::I'll comm Ratchet.:: Ironhide and Bumblebee had been getting perfect scores for the last half-dozen rounds of shooting; probably time to quit anyway.

::Bad time to ask you how things're going?:: Hide sent to the medic.

::No. It's all going fine so far. Wexford says not to be alarmed by the amount of time it takes; first-time mothers are not very predictable, he tells me. Could be today, could go on until tomorrow.::

::Bee's going to be completely unraveled by then, and Sam will be too.::

::Ping the Big Twins. See if one of them will run some laps with Bee. Sam's on his own, unless he wants a tranquilizer. I'll pull a cube for Bee and the Twins from the emergency stores.::

::Good idea.::

While Bee did the equivalent of working up a sweat, or doing a day's cardio, Ironhide went to medbay, to see if Chromia needed anything. He found her with Ron and Judy Witwicky, playing the human card game called "poker."

Judy had a stack of chips three times the size of anyone else's.

Arcee arrived just as he did, and said firmly to Chromia, "I'm spelling you. Go take a few hours off, and come back halfway through sunbathing time, okay? You don't get to have all the fun." She turned to Ron and Judy, and said, "Hi! I'm Arcee, if you don't remember me, Chromia's sister. Give me a minute to ping Ratchet, to let him know I'm here instead of Chromia, and we'll get back to the game."

Judy put her hand down. "I think we might get lunch, if that's all right with you," she said to Arcee. "We'll bring back something for Sam."

So that was fine by Hide, too. He pinged Bee, and got rations for all of them including Sunny, and they had a nice time in the sun.

Chromia returned to medbay, and Arcee came out for some abbreviated sunbathing. The afternoon went on, getting a touch warmer; various bots' fans clicked on and off. Hot Rod went to sit with Borealis, who jealously guarded her once-weekly permission to get out of the berth and sunbathe.

Shankie, Shad White's dog, came to sit with Steeljaw. So far as Shad could tell, each of them thought the other was a weird dog, but another dog was another dog, and they formed a pack of two. No one had any idea which one thought himself alpha.

The Wreckers had Googled "dog behavior," and thereafter begun to refer to themselves as a pack. When Prowl Googled the term after they first used it in his presence, he realized that it explained _everything_.

Toward sunset Bee and Hide went to the quarters being built for the Pretenders, to see if they could lend a hand. Their help was gratefully accepted, and they spent a few hours moving pipe and I-beams.

Around seven thirty Bee said he had to go see if Shad needed help with his homework; he'd ping Hide when he was done.

Hide went to his workshop, and spent some time doing not much of anything before he realized he was too distracted to be there. He went back to medbay at nine PM, telling Bee where he was.

Ron was talking to Sam, who was white-faced and tired. "What goes around comes around; you know you dragged your feet getting born yourself!"

And there was a story behind that, because Judy's eyes shot sparks and her fields read embarrassment. Cohort business, then. But Sam was too frazzled to note it (which was saying something, Ironhide realized, if he himself had), and then the ward clerk came out to say, "Come on back, Mr. Witwicky." He leapt up and disappeared.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Things began to go sideways with an alarm from the fetal monitor. Sam knew from his own medbay experiences that medical machinery beeped, tweeted, and whistled: loudly, annoyingly, and usually for no good reason that he could see. Ordinarily, a nurse would come in, check the noisy machinery, quiet it, make some sort of chart notation—and that would be it until the next alarm.

This time, however, the nurse drew Dr. Wexford's attention to the monitor. He checked it. "Hmm."

Carly said, "What does that mean? What's wrong?"

"The baby's pulse is a little slow. It's normal for the fetus' pulse rate to slow down during a contraction, then speed back up again afterwards. Daniel's is still just a bit slow."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"Any number of reasons, Sam. We use multiple monitors to help us pinpoint why. Right now, it's well within the the acceptable range, but we'll keep a close eye on it just in case." He swung to Carly. "I'd like to ask Perceptor to come in and do a set of scans."

"Sure," Carly replied.

The small Cybertronian healer was happy to do so. He hardlined to a monitor so that his human counterparts could view the data.

If Carly was anxious at having a mechanical insectoid the size of a basketball with a plethora of sharp-pointed legs on the bed with her, she handled it with typical British aplomb. Sam flashed back on Scalpel and literally bit his tongue to keep silent.

The doctors, human and otherwise, gathered around the monitor, conversing quietly in medicalese. Even Percy had learned that language.

Carly drew a sharp breath as the next contraction started, then her hand clamped down hard on Sam's. "Ah! Dr. Wexford, it feels—wrong. Really hurts. Not like a normal contraction. Someone tell me what's happening!"

Sam looked down.

A bright red stain was spreading across the sheet.

"Doc, look here, bleeding!"

Medbay erupted. The head nurse gently but firmly removed Sam while everyone else burst into activity, moving equipment and bringing trays of instruments. His last glimpse was of Parker scrubbing in, with the assistance of another of the nurses.

Judy jumped out of her chair. "Sam, what's happening?"

"I don't know, Daniel's monitor went off and then Carly started bleeding, I don't know!"

"Oh, Sam!" His mother hugged him, and he hugged back.

Ron said, "Everyone, _sit down_! It won't help to panic. They'll tell us what's going on as soon as they can. They're in good hands. Sam, when you told me Dr. Wexford was going to be delivering Danny, I checked him out, and he's the best. They're going to be fine."

Chromia pinged Ratchet. ::What's happening in there?::

::It's apparently a condition called placental abruption. The placenta is the structure that connects the baby to the uterus—the human version of the gestation chamber. Oxygen, nutrition and waste products filter through this structure so that the carrier—the mother, I mean—can provide life support for her creation. This structure is not supposed to be jettisoned until after the creation has been completely separated. In Carly's case, it detached prematurely. They will have to perform what's known as an caesarian section in order to separate the creation very quickly, to save both their lives.::

::I see.::

::I didn't tell you that, if the humans ask. Their HIPPA regulations forbid healers from talking about that sort of thing with anyone other than those who have business to know: the patient and the next of kin.::

::All right. I'll find a way to tell Sam without informing everyone else. What are their chances?::

Ratchet answered that from a perspective of thousands of years' experience in emergency medicine. ::It's hard to tell, Chromia. There's an all-out effort in progress, and I believe the doctor they brought in from Nellis is very competent. He has the benefit of Percy's real-time scans, also. They are much more advanced than anything provided by their own technology. But the kind of severe fluid loss that Carly is experiencing is just as dangerous for humans as it is for us. Let the healers do their job.::

End Part 26


	27. Chapter 27

Disclaimers in Part 1

Chromia pinged Hide. ::You two might want to get down here. Carly's having some difficulties.::

::On our way,:: her bonded sent.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

::Ratchet, Optimus.::

The Prime had been hurrying to finish a few reports before joining Diarwen for the Ostara circle when he got Ratchet's urgent ping. ::Yes, Ratchet?::

::I'm telling you this because the humans can't, because of their privacy rules. You might want to happen by medbay about now.::

::What has happened?::

::Uh. Telling you that much, I've already broken their rules.::

"Broken" in Ratchet-speak translated to "smashed into a thousand pieces," which meant he wouldn't have done so without very good reason. And he wasn't angry or blustering, which made the situation very serious indeed. Optimus said, ::I was on my way to Buzzard Rock. I can drop by Admin on my way.::

::You do that, Prime.::

Optimus immediately left his quarters and crossed the short distance between the two hangars. The path from the back door of the main hangar to Admin led directly past medbay. He found a small group of very anxious people outside—Chromia, keeping Sam, his parents, and Bumblebee, as calm as possible.

He knelt to talk to Sam. "What is it, Sam?"

"Carly...something's happened, she's in surgery. We don't know anything yet."

His brother Prime was pale, and white showed all the way around his eyes. But something in his fields held him just steady enough to do what needed to be done. Optimus leant him strength; Sam was beyond being surprised, and only grateful.

Chromia pinged Optimus, sending glyphs that she needed to talk to Sam privately, and asking him to distract Ron and Judy.

Distracting Judy wasn't usually difficult, but nothing about this situation was "usual." Her daughter-in-law and grandson were in peril, and she was powerless to affect the situation.

Optimus decided that the direct approach would be best. "Judy, Ron. Is there any way that I can be of assistance? Do you need anything?"

Judy replied, "No, but thank you, Optimus. Everyone has been very kind. There's nothing anyone can do but wait."

Ron explained, "We went through something similar ourselves with Sam. Judy...?"

"It's OK, Ron. Optimus is family."

"Judy was confined to bed for the last several months that she was pregnant with Sam, and he still came early. They're both lucky to be here." He patted Judy's hand. "We were never able to have any more. We thought things were goin' good with Carly, but then all of a sudden, something went wrong and she started hemorrhaging. We're still waiting to hear."

"I see. It has been a very long day for you, has it not? I regret that accommodations are quite crowded here on the base, but certainly we can arrange a more comfortable place for you to wait."

Judy said, "Please don't go to any trouble. We're close to them here. I don't know what logical difference it makes but at least...we're here."

"I understand. Judy, humans may not be able to consciously detect energy fields, but you do have them, and the closer you are to one another, the greater an effect your fields have. I do not know _precisely _what difference it makes, either—but I am certain that it _does_ make a difference."

She managed a wan smile. "Thank you, Optimus."

Optimus nodded, then glanced to Ron before returning his attention to Judy. "I do ask you not to neglect your own needs. If you require something to eat or drink, please tell Chromia, and she will have someone bring you something from the mess. Or, if there is anything else that you require, we will do our best to provide it for you."

The small human woman reached up to pat his vambrace. "Thank you, Optimus. You've been a great friend to our family, and I don't know if I've told you how much we value that."

Optimus smiled. "And we are grateful for all that you have done for us. We are strangers here, and your family was the first to welcome and shelter us."

Chromia had pulled Sam aside: around a corner, out of sight, Bee in attendance. She said quietly, "Ratchet tells me that Carly has undergone what is called a placental abruption. The placenta separated early. They got her permission to perform an emergency caesarian, and right now Dr. Wexford has said that she's hemorrhaging heavily enough to make a hysterectomy necessary."

Sam went white, and Bee's fields reached for him. To Chromia's astonishment, his reached out to Bee's, and Sam actually appeared to draw strength from the young scout, much as...much as Optimus had once done from Megatron.

Chromia put that observation aside for the time being—though not too far aside. She assured Sam, "Ratchet tells me that Dr. Wexford has things very well in servo, and he is assisted by one of the best emergency medical teams in the country."

Sam pulled himself together. "We'd better get back to the others before Mom and Dad hear something from somebody else. Ratchet will keep you updated, right?"

"Of course he will, Sam."

Kaela and Chip came out of Chip's quarters, which were situated near medbay in case his condition created an emergency. They saw the gathering and came over to see if they could help. Kaela gave Sam a sisterly hug and asked, "Do you want us to stay?"

"Kaela, thanks. But you're on your way to Circle, right? Well, Carly and Danny need all the help they can get. So, if you could put in a good word for them when you get there, I'd appreciate it."

"I'll be glad to. Do you want me to ask Diarwen if we can send them healing energy?"

"Of course! It would be great if you could do that. Please."

"I'll do it as soon as we have the Circle up, Sam."

Optimus said, "If we are going, we should do so. Chromia, please ping me as soon as you have any information."

"Of course, Optimus."

Sam lowered himself to the floor and leaned against Bee's front tire; his Protector's fields enfolded him.

He drifted in and out, no one disturbing him. He didn't know how long it was before the head nurse, Elise Bingham, appeared in front of him. Ron and Judy perked up and arrived at his side about the same time; surely, with that wide smile on her face, Bingham would not be the bearer of bad news.

"Sam, congratulations! It's a boy, and Danny's fine."

"Oh, thank God! Carly?"

Bingham's face grew serious. "Holding her own. Dr. Wexford is still with her. He'll be out to give you an update as soon as possible."

"Can I see Danny?"

"As soon as they've finished examining him and giving him his bath, we'll bring him out to you. You did good, Sam. He's beautiful."

Sam slid down to the floor to sit against Bee, his hands over his face, and began to cry. His parents gathered him in, and his Guardian's fields settled like a shield over them all.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ten minutes earlier, at 10:14 PM, the Circle participants were balancing uncooked eggs on their ends, a feat possible only twice each year: the moments of Ostara and Mabon, six months away on the Wheel of the Year. Diarwen, who as priestess was watching over her students, suddenly raised her head.

"The time to send Carly and Daniel Witwicky blue energy for healing has come. Please ready yourselves."

Optimus would later wonder how she knew that. But when he asked, all she said was, with a smile, "Ten thousand years of practice." (It didn't actually take all that long to learn; while still young, Betony Lennox could do the same. Which would _totally_ have freaked her big brother out.)

They had already grounded and centered. They gathered and joined servos or hands as their species required; Diarwen began a low-voiced chant in Sidhe. Evanon joined her.

As priestess, it was Diarwen's job to contain the energy until it was maximized, whereupon it would be released to the person for whom the work was being done. All of the Cybertronians could perceive a bright-blue cone becoming clearer and clearer above their circle, with small "tags" of varicolored energies attached: the "signature" of the senders.

When the cone was clear and bright and strong, swirling clockwise, Diarwen released it, and it shot like an arrow into medbay.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

At that moment in medbay, Dr. Wexford was working to cauterize blood vessels after the hysterectomy. Carly was still under anaesthesia, and the nurses were striving to slap exactly what he needed into Wexford's bloodied gloves almost before he needed it. Discarded gloves littered the floor, and blood had pooled under Carly's hospital bed: Sam's vision made manifest.

But...Ratchet and Perceptor suddenly raised their heads, and the cauterizer crackled more loudly than usual about its business for a moment. Then the blue energy the two Cybertronians had sensed settled around Carly; her blood pressure stabilized, and began to rise.

"Think we won," Wexford grunted.

"I think so too," Parker said.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus Prime dialed the Chaplain at Nellis Air Force Base. Captain James Jeffries' pleasant baritone said, "Hello, you've reached Jim Jeffries. I'm officiating or otherwise unavailable at the moment; if you'd care to leave a message, I'll be in touch as soon as possible. Thanks!"

"Hello, Jim, it's Optimus Prime at Mission City base. We've had a baby born here, and his parents would like to have him baptized; I'm calling to see if it would be a problem if I asked Primus to bless the child, which they also would like, as part of that ceremony. If you would call me back at your convenience, please?"

He gave his number and disconnected to join Ironhide on the firing range.

Where, inevitably, the call came through just as Ironhide loosed off a very savory cannon-blast at an innocent target, which immediately surrendered its physical integrity and became a cloud of expanding dust. This was not a silent process.

"Hello, Optimus, this is Jim Jeffries—great heavens, are you under attack?"

Optimus laughed, and pinged Ironhide to continue; he was going to leave as he had a call. He did not return to his office, however, but instead sped along the roads leading through the uninhabited part of the base.

"No, Jim, I was spending some time on the firing range with my foster-father, Ironhide."

"I see," Jeffries said, and Optimus could picture him in his office, smoothing back the crinkly red hair. "The noise is certainly receding fast."

"Yes," Optimus said. "My 2iC will have some things to say to me about my speed today."

"Everyone needs to cut loose sometime," Jeffries said, who did that by playing a killer game of handball. "Anyway, Optimus, this baptism. Of course I'll be happy to officiate with you. That's not a problem. Is there anything I need to know, any special circumstances?"

"We will be working in a hall outside the human medbay on base; the mother had a difficult delivery and is still under care. For that reason, we will also need to be brief."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Will she recover?"

"I am told so. The parents would like the child to be baptized on his third day of life, which will be Thursday."

Some thought processes went on at the other end of the line. "It's the travel time that kills me, Optimus. Takes about an hour to get between your base and mine. I could get there at five-fifteen if you can guarantee we'd be done at six. I have a softball practice to supervise."

"Of course. I will have one of the Big Twins bring you here, and take you where you're going afterward, if that would ease things."

"That would be wonderful. Three of my kids are car fiends, and they'd _love _that. Could you consider your arm twisted?"

"Ow ow ow enough. Consider it arranged," Optimus said, which made Jeffries laugh. The Prime pinged Sideswipe, who agreed immediately.

Jeffries continued. "Thank you, Optimus. Let's say five-fifteen, then."

Disconnecting, Optimus smiled, and pinged Burnout. He'd need an acolyte.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sam opened the curtain around Carly's bed and peeked inside to see if she was awake. She was bottle-feeding Danny: she had wanted to breastfeed, but Dr. Wexford had forbidden it. She had lost a lot of blood.

Danny, like any baby, didn't mind. He already had a healthy appetite, and no problem whatsoever with wailing at the top of his lungs if his dinner was late. "He's got the Witwicky appetite, all right," Sam said.

"He's a growing boy," Carly grinned. "I'm getting out of this bed as soon as he's done eating."

"What did Dr. Wexford say about that?"

"That I'm mental, but I'm doing it anyway. There's nothing worse for you than lying in bed."

"That's going to hurt."

"Well, yes, I suspect it will, but the longer I delay the worse it will be when I do get up."

"That's true. At least that's what they said when I had my appendix taken out. Oh—I talked to Optimus, and it's all set with the chaplain for Thursday evening at quarter past five."

"That's marvelous. Where are we going to do it?"

"In the hallway outside the medbay. Military chaplains are used to setting up wherever and whenever, and everyone will be able to see there. Now, Brains and Wheelie will be Guardians, but who are we having for godparents?"

"What about Chip and Mikaela?"

Sam's heart swelled until he thought his ribs would break. "Carly, that's really generous of you."

"Kaela is with Chip now, so the past you shared is in the past. Honestly, she's been a good friend."

"Oh no. I'm dead. You're trading notes with my ex-girlfriend."

Carly laughed, and said, "Quite," with that very British inflection which insinuated that whatever had just been said was absolutely ridiculous. Then she gasped and put her hand over her incision. "Don't make me laugh!"

"Sorry."

A nurse tapped on the wall beside the curtain.

"Come in!"

"Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky are here. Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all. Danny was sleepy and fussy when they were here before. They can get a better look at him now."

Judy had brought her camera, and when Carly wanted to fix her hair before getting her picture taken, Judy offered to do it for her. Sam and Ron stepped outside the curtain, Danny in the crook of his grandfather's arm, to give them room.

Ron asked, "How is she?"

"Stiff upper lip, you know, but she's in a lot more pain than she likes to admit. She's determined to get up."

"That's best." Ron dropped his voice to a whisper. "Lying around will give you pneumonia."

Sam smiled. His Dad, imparting secrets that weren't so secret. "Danny's going to be baptised Thursday evening, five-fifteen PM."

"Where? Carly's not up to a trip to the base chapel at Nellis."

"The chaplain's coming here."

"Oh, OK. We're invited?"

"No, Dad, of course not. _Geez_."

Ron interpreted the sarcasm correctly, and grinned at his son.

Presently, Judy drew the curtain back. She took several pictures, then asked Dr. Parker to take a family picture, and to pose with mom and baby for another.

Copies of those two photos went into Sam's wallet, and for the rest of his life, came out to be displayed with pride anytime he could compel an audience to hold still long enough.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Arturo Melendez slicked back his dark hair and walked into the noise and bright lights of a small casino located far from the Strip. He'd been pleased not to have to find, and pay for, a parking placing downtown.

The Double K Casino appealed mostly to retired people: slot players with buckets of nickles, buffet-noshers listening to someone who was not now and never had been Frank Sinatra. He sang, to put it loosely, "My Way."

The Double K made its money on nostalgia, drawing in a crowd who remembered Vegas the way it used to be.

Arturo took out his phone and pretended to make a call, allowing Jazz to use the phone's camera to get a look around. (Another reason to use a small casino: no black sunglasses descended on him to say, "I'm sorry, sir, but the use of cellphone cameras is not allowed inside the casino.") "I don't see Smith anywhere."

"Me neither; he must've changed his disguise again. Let's grab that end banquette. It isn't covered by the cameras."

They talked mutual funds until the hostess had taken Arturo's order. When she brought his drink, he casually laid the phone on the table.

Jazz tapped into the hotel's cameras and kept watch on the patrons. He set a subroutine to compare their height and body shape to Smith's, since the holoform emitters Soundwave equipped his humans with would only change only his facial appearance.

That strategy might fool facial recognition software, but there were other parameters that could be used to identify him.

Jazz also set it to scan for people meeting Tom Wilburn's description as well, in case he showed up in Smith's place. You didn't live long in Spec Ops if you took _anything_ for granted.

Arturo nursed his drink and half-listened to the lounge singer while he kept his own watch over the casino. The banquette that Jazz chose had a good view of most of the establishment. The Chief Master Sergeant picked out several people who were probably up to no good, but their endeavors looked like minor scams on the tourists which fooled nobody; the tourists considered it part of the entertainment. It wasn't a trip to Vegas unless you met at least one shady character to talk about once you got back to Podunk.

Arturo thought that his wife would probably get a kick out of an evening here. When this was over, they'd do that. If he didn't end up in a shallow grave in the desert somewhere; that was vintage Vegas, too.

Jazz flashed the phone screen. Arturo picked it up and read the text. "Look sharp, they just walked in."

He tapped the screen to acknowledge, and the message disappeared. He dropped the phone into his shirt pocket where it wouldn't attract as much attention as it might lying on the table. He hoped that Jazz would be able to see at least a little through the pocket fabric—he'd bought a cheap-and-sleazy shirt particularly for this purpose. Even if it wasn't sufficiently cheap and sleazy, though, Jazz would be able to hear everything.

Wilburn and Smith slipped into opposite sides of the banquette with Melendez in the middle. That was supposed to be intimidating, Arturo knew. They had no clue that if he actually did feel threatened, they had just given him his choice of which one to gut first.

Neither would hesitate to kill if crossed, but the training that Arturo had taken full advantage of since he had been assigned to NEST made him more dangerous than a lot of so-called professionals. He was not a Ranger, but anyone who was expecting just another grunt would be in for a surprise.

For that matter, these two mooks weren't even grunts.

"What have you got for us?" Smith said, not moving his mouth much. It made Arturo want to laugh.

"Not so fast, _mi amigo_. This is big. A million dollars big, and worth every penny to your boss."

"What are you talking about?"

"_Senor_ Smith, I was not born yesterday. Here is how we are going to do this: I am going to show you a photograph. If _El Jefe _is as interested in it as I think he will be, either you pay me up front, or I will speak to him and only him about it. We will keep everyone honest."

Wilburn took out a pair of stereotypical black-framed nerd glasses. "Let me see this photo."

Arturo opened his wallet and got out a copy of the picture of Buzzsaw and Rumble, which he had torn the corner from, slightly dampened, and rolled between his palms. Once it dried it looked like it had been through a war. "You can keep that. They're not at that location any more. You find out if your boss is interested in where they are now."

Immediately, Smith's phone rang. He listened, said, "Sure thing, boss," and put it back on his belt. "You got your meeting. If this is good, the boss is going to have more work for you, a lot more. If it isn't, say goodbye to Hollywood, baby."

"It's good," Arturo assured him. "I think the boss is going to be real happy with this."

"Let's go."

He accompanied Soundwave's minions out to the casino parking lot, where they approached, circuitously, a sharp late-model blue Ford Mustang. Not new, and not perfect, so not a rental: stolen, Arturo thought.

Then he saw the driver. Not stolen, an alt scanned for the purpose, most likely.

Once you'd seen a holoform and been shown what it was, they were easily identifiable: they were too perfect, or imperfect in odd ways. They didn't impact the world around them, and you began to watch for that, though it that was mostly visible when they were moving.

Fortunately for Cybertronians who wanted to remain incognito, a holoform in the driver's seat was not likely to attract attention...unless the holoform glitched and flickered.

"How long will we be gone?"

"That's up to the boss."

"Look, I'm in the military, I can't just not show up for work without creating a commotion. I can call in sick, but if I'm going to be a while, I need a better story than that."

"Couple of days."

Arturo made a call, blaming bad enchiladas. His wife would back up his story. Knowing how awful a liar he was, she had long ago told him to use that excuse when necessary; she would use it now if anyone checked up on him. Back on base, though, when the officer of the day reported that he was out sick, Lennox would know he was in.

He got in the back with Wilburn, while Smith buckled into the front passenger seat.

Jazz had been lying low, but when Arturo made his call, he risked a light, fast scan.

The driver (and of course the vehicle) was Warp, Soundwave's mechling soldier. Inexperienced, and therefore perfect. Jazz jumped from the phone to Warp, very careful to conceal his presence from the youngling. He would have to stay completely out of sight until Warp had returned to Soundwave, and been accepted as untainted.

Thinking of himself as a "taint" made Jazz grin. _Yeah, Sounders, you better prep yourself to be tainted, baby_.

The teleporter pulled smoothly into a line of cars, just part of the scenery until they got out on the freeway, until he had to warp past an energon detector. Once they got closer to base, he would cut their travel time by making longer jumps.

They would be at the hideout by morning.

End


End file.
